Low fever was prevalent that sultry month of June, also typhoid and diphtheria. The latter fastened its grim clutch on little Harry. It was a case which developed rapidly. The child had been hot and heavy, and not his usual bright talkative self, when his mother saw him on Saturday. Mrs. Holt attributed this entirely to the oppressive weather, and to thunder in the air. On Sunday his father, justly alarmed, summoned the local doctor, who at once pronounced that the little patient was a victim to diphtheria. On Monday Madeline was sent for. The child was a shade better, though still very ill. He lay in his cot and gazed at her with large distended eyes--and gasped out “Mummy--mummy,” as he held out his little hot hands. She remained all day, for it so happened that her father was out of town; but, under any circumstances, she assured herself, she would have stayed all the same; and when she finally departed, late in the evening, the patient was sleeping, and the doctor’s opinion more encouraging. He assured her that she need not alarm herself, as he walked down with her to where the fly stood waiting in the lane. “You really need not be uneasy, my dear madam,” he said impressively, “unless things take a most unexpected turn, and then, of course, we will let you know. He is a fine healthy child, and admirably nursed by yonder good woman,” nodding towards the house. “She is indeed a good woman!” returned Madeline fervently, as her thoughts recalled Mrs. Holt’s unwearying care and night and day attendance on her nursling. She even seemed to grudge her permission to feed him, or to moisten his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t come to-morrow, unless I am really needed,” said Madeline plaintively. “You say there is no danger now--you are _sure_? I may rely on you to tell me?” “Yes; there is none whatever at present.” “Because if there were, I should remain all night.” “There is no occasion, especially if you are urgently needed elsewhere,” rejoined the doctor, who nevertheless thought it rather strange that this pretty, tearful, agitated young lady should not find it the most natural thing to remain with her sick child--her only child. Promising that she should have early news the next morning by telegraph, he handed her into the fly, and bowed her off the scene, just as another inquiring relative--equally near and equally anxious--came hurrying up to him--in fact, the child’s father, who had taken the short cut from the station by the path across the fields. “Most peculiar state of affairs,” thought the doctor to himself; “there must be a screw loose somewhere. The child’s parents apparently well-off, fashionable people, living apart and visiting the farm separately, and never alluding to one another. What did it mean?”