Louise

The doctor from Englewood came very soon, and I went up to see the sick
girl with him. Halsey had gone to supervise the fitting of the car
with blankets and pillows, and Gertrude was opening and airing Louise's
own rooms at the house. Her private sitting-room, bedroom and
dressing-room were as they had been when we came. They occupied the
end of the east wing, beyond the circular staircase, and we had not
even opened them.

The girl herself was too ill to notice what was being done. When, with
the help of the doctor, who was a fatherly man with a family of girls
at home, we got her to the house and up the stairs into bed, she
dropped into a feverish sleep, which lasted until morning. Doctor
Stewart--that was the Englewood doctor--stayed almost all night, giving
the medicine himself, and watching her closely. Afterward he told me
that she had had a narrow escape from pneumonia, and that the cerebral
symptoms had been rather alarming. I said I was glad it wasn't an
"itis" of some kind, anyhow, and he smiled solemnly.

He left after breakfast, saying that he thought the worst of the danger
was over, and that she must be kept very quiet.

"The shock of two deaths, I suppose, has done this," he remarked,
picking up his case. "It has been very deplorable."

I hastened to set him right.

"She does not know of either, Doctor," I said. "Please do not mention
them to her."

He looked as surprised as a medical man ever does.