“Ah-h!” said he. He always prefaced his remarks with a long breath, as if he had just swallowed something delicious. “I’m in time, after all, I see! Bring him here to the table, Lady Fairfax, and I’ll give him a dose that will cure him in no time. Don’t look so frightened, my dear young lady.” White as her dressing-gown, her long hair hanging in a thick loose plait far below her waist, she rose and gave her boy into the doctor’s hands. He administered a remedy that had an almost instantaneous effect, and, within a quarter of an hour, Maurice lay in his little cot sound asleep. The doctor, an elderly, eccentric, and extremely clever man, after staring at Sir Reginald for some seconds, said brusquely: “And who is this young gentleman who has dropped the medicine so accurately and been so useful?” “He is my husband, Dr. Barton.” “Ah-h! I thought so, from the likeness to the boy; but you told me your husband was in India! By what conjuring trick is he here to-night?” “No conjuring trick beyond a medical board,” replied Sir Reginald coolly. “Ah-h! Well, as you _are_ here, Sir Reginald, I want to speak to you. The child is all right, there is not the slightest fear of him--a bad attack of croup; but I’ve pulled children through worse often. That idiot of a nurse, to swell her own importance, seems to have frightened Lady Fairfax nearly into fits. I never thought much of that nurse--never; I often told you so,” nodding solemnly at Alice. “Well, we may as well go downstairs, Sir Reginald. Good-night, Lady Fairfax; good-night, and go to bed.” Together they descended to the library. The doctor, having usurped the rug and refreshed himself with some spirits and water, said abruptly: “I want particularly to speak to you, Sir Reginald, now you _are_ here, about your wife. The boy is all right, he will live to plague you for many a year; he is as strong as a pony; there’s no fear of _him_.” “Do you mean,” said Sir Reginald, fixing on him an eye piercing as an eagle’s, “that there _is_ fear of my wife?” “I do,” he replied emphatically, “and I think it my duty to tell you so, now you _are_ here. That you set off to India and left a delicate girl of seventeen moping here alone is your concern, of course!” “Of course,” repeated his host, reddening with anger. Dr. Barton eyed the young man standing before him with a resentful glance from under his bushy, luxuriant, gray eyebrows. “He looks overbearing, harsh, and cold. I’ve no doubt he treats her as he treats his troopers; I’ll not spare him then. Your wife,” clearing his throat and speaking slowly, “will probably leave you a widower ere long. She comes of a delicate stock, and, as far as I can observe, is rapidly following in her mother’s footsteps.” Seeing that this thrust told, he continued: “She is subject to deadly fainting fits, and might go off in one of them any day.”