In an hour's time the specialist arrived and the two doctors had their consultation. Certain remedies were prescribed, and Dr. Rumsey hurried away promising to send in two trained nurses immediately. He came back again himself at noon to find the boy, as he expected, much worse. The child was now delirious. All during that long dreadful day the fever rose and rose. The whole aspect of the house in Seymour Street was altered. There were hushed steps, anxious faces, whispered consultations. As the hours flew by the prognostications of the medical men became graver and graver. Margaret gave up hope as the evening approached. She knew that the little life could not long stand the strain of that all-consuming fever. Awdrey alone was full of bustle, excitement, and confidence. "The child will and must recover," he said to his wife several times. When the night began Dr. Rumsey resolved not to leave the child. "A man like Rumsey must save him," cried the father. He forgot all about his own nervous symptoms--he refused even to listen to his wife's words of anxiety. "Pooh!" he said, "when children are ill they are always very bad. I was at death's door once or twice myself as a child. Children are bad one moment and almost themselves the next. Is not that so, doctor?" "In some cases," replied the doctor. "Well, in this case? You think the boy will be all right in the morning--come now, your honest opinion." "My honest opinion is a grave one, Mr. Awdrey." Awdrey laughed. There was a wild note in his merriment. "You and Cowley can't be up to much if between you you can't manage to keep the life in a little mite like that," he said. "The issues of life and death belong to higher than us," answered the doctor slowly. Awdrey looked at him again, gave an incredulous smile, and went into the sick-room. During the entire night the father sat up with the boy. The sick child did not know either parent. His voice grew weaker and weaker--the struggle to breathe became greater. When he had strength to speak, he babbled continually of his playthings, of his walk by the Serpentine the previous day, and the little ships as they sailed on the water. Presently he took a fancy into his head that he was in one of the tiny ships, and that he was sailing away from shore. He laughed with feeble pleasure, and tried to clap his burning hands. Toward morning his baby notes were scarcely distinguishable. He dozed off for a little, then woke again, and began to talk--he talked now all the time of his father. "'Ittle boy 'ove dad," he said. "'Ittle Arthur 'oves dad best of anybody--best of all."