An hour later Miss Theodosia, in a voluminous white apron and a hastily invented white cap, had formally assumed her astonishing new rôle. Under the cap Miss Theodosia's cheeks were prettily pink. It was becoming to her to be Elly Precious' nurse. But the queer feeling of it! An hour ago Theodosia Baxter, in a big house, alone; now this becapped and pink-cheeked Theodosia in a house with a baby! It was an exciting change; what else might it become? She was a little afraid of Elly Precious. "Not now, while he is asleep, but when he wakes--" she thought. What would she do with Elly Precious when he waked? Of course, she had sent for the Reformed Doctor, and equally, of course, she would do precisely what he told her to do. But how would it feel? So far, it felt queer. "I'll wait and see," she concluded with philosophy. At six the doctor came. It was significant how he had left his rôle of authorship at home and came physicianly, brisk and competent. "Measles haven't changed, anyway, in ten years," he said as he removed his coat. Long ago, as a doctor, John Bradford had had his idiosyncrasies, and one of them had been to work in his shirt sleeves. The laying aside of his coat now had, if Miss Theodosia had but known, bridged over the ten years. "Am I quarantined?" demanded the nurse. "You are," promptly replied the doctor. "Mercy gracious!" Silence while the tiny patient was carefully examined, with so delicate a touch that he slept on. "For how long?" then. "Oh--weeks. Two, perhaps. Perhaps three. He is beginning to be feverish in earnest now. You got him over here just in time. May I have a glass of water?" Miss Theodosia went away to get it on shaking legs. She almost staggered. The plot was getting thick! "If you think his mother ought to be sent for--I'm afraid I'm in a blue funk!" She had returned and was splashing the water over the edge of the glass as she held it out. He laughed reassuringly. His face, turned sidewise up at her, was as reviving as cool water upon a faint. Miss Theodosia "came to." "I've got over it. Go ahead--tell me precisely what you want done. Write it down somewhere. I can read writing! And I can't forget it. Of course I can rock him?" He did not answer at once, and she misinterpreted his silence. "I shall rock him," she said with firmness. "Written down or not written down." And again he laughed, with the same curiously explosive little effect as when she had first heard him do it as a Shadow Man.