in
Roger glared at his silent daughter. And now, even in his excited state, he
noticed how still and rigid she was, how unnatural the look she bent on the
book held tightly in her hands.

Still Deborah said nothing. She could feel her father's anger. Both he and
Edith held her to blame. She felt herself in a position where she could not
move a hand. She was stunned, and could not think clearly. A vivid picture
was in her mind, vivid as a burning flame which left everything else in
darkness. It was of Bruce, one adorable baby, fighting for breath. "What
would I do if he were mine?"

When the doctor arrived she took him upstairs and then came down to her
father.

"Well?" he demanded.

"I don't know. We'll have to wait." And they both sat silent. At last they
heard a door open and close, and presently steps coming down the stairs.
Roger went out into the hall:

"Come right in here, doctor, won't you? I want to hear about this myself."

"Very well, sir." And Lake entered the room, with Edith close behind him.
He took no notice of anyone else. "Write this down," he said to her. "And
give it to the nurse when she comes." A heavy man of middle age, with
curious dark impassive eyes that at times showed an ironic light, Lake was
a despot in a world of mothers to whom his word was law. He was busy
to-night, with no time to waste, and his low harsh voice now rattled out
orders which Edith wrote down in feverish haste--an hourly schedule, night
and day. He named a long list of things needed at once. "Night nurse will
be here in an hour," he ended. "Day nurse, to-morrow, eight a.m. Get sleep
yourself and plenty of it. As it is you're not fit to take care of a cat."
Abruptly he turned and left the room. Edith followed. The street door
closed, and in a moment after that his motor was off with a muffled roar.
Edith came back, picked up her directions and turned to her sister:

"Will you go up and sit with Bruce? I'll telephone the druggist," she said.

Deborah went to the sick room. Bruce's small face, peaked and gray in the
soft dim light, turned as she entered and came to the bed.

"Well, dear?" she whispered. The small boy's eyes, large and heavy with
fever, looked straight into hers.

"Sick," said the baby hoarsely. The next instant he tossed up his hands and
went through a spasm, trying to breathe. It passed, he relaxed a little,
and again stared solemnly at his aunt. "Sick," he repeated. "Wery sick."

Deborah sat sile