As the days went on, Justin began to congratulate himself upon Ruffie being proof against infection. He was with him a great deal, and took him up amongst the Fells on his pony, feeling that the open-air life would be the best thing for him at present. Ruffie missed Anstice and his sisters, and was always talking about them. "Shall you and I catch it next, Dad? What fun, when we're all in bed together!" But Justin did not feel inclined to joke about it. He was still watching his boy with breathless suspense, noting any feverishness or heightened colour with anxious eyes. Brenda tried to comfort him. "He need not have it, sir. The little girls had measles once and he never took it. They say that delicate children often escape illnesses." Hope allayed his fears for the time. And then one evening Ruffie grew fretful over a game of chess with his father. He grew careless over his moves, and when he was not winning, he threw out his little hand and overturned the pieces. "I'm tired, my head aches." His father took him in his arms, and tried to soothe him. Ruffie put up hot little fingers and stroked his cheek. "I love you, Dad, but I miss Steppie dreffully. I want to feel her velvet dress against my cheek." "She can't come to you, sonny; she's nursing your sisters." "But they ought to be well by now. They've been ill such a long time. I want Steppie!" He was half crying. "You mustn't be a baby," his father said. "Cheer up! If your head aches, what does Steppie do?" "She puts eau-de-C'logne on her hanky and dabs my forehead." "Oh, I can do that," said his father with alacrity. He found the eau-de-Cologne, and tried his hand at cooling Ruffie's hot head. But either his hands and movements were awkward, or the child was impatient, for he suddenly pushed him from him, and burst into tears. "I want Steppie! I want Steppie. I feel mis'able!" Brenda came to the rescue. "I'll put him to bed, sir. He is tired and hot; he will be all right to-morrow." Justin hardly slept that night. Ruffie, and Ruffie only, was in his thoughts. He stole into his room in the early morning, and found Brenda bending over the child's bed with an anxious face. Looking up, she made an effort to speak lightly: "He's been very restless and feverish all night, sir. I hope he may be better now. He's had a nice sleep since six o'clock." "He's no better at all," said a plaintive little voice from the pillow. "He's very ill indeed, very!" Justin came and put his hand on the little forehead; the curls were moist with heat, and the anxious father looked at Brenda with scared eyes. "I must get hold of Mrs. Holme. We'll let the doctor see him when he comes." He sped along to the upper corridor and to the nursery wing which was set apart for the girls. He dared not go near his wife, because of carrying infection to Ruffie, but spoke to her from a distance. She spoke to him with pale face and tired eyes, but she spoke encouragingly.