Two days after the parade there was great excitement among Bettie's friends. She had not appeared at school. That in itself was not an unusual occurrence, for Bettie often stayed at home to help her overburdened mother through particularly trying days; but when Jean stopped in to consult her little friend about homemade valentines, Mrs. Tucker met her with the news that Bettie was sick in bed. "Can't I see her?" asked Jean. "I'm afraid not," replied Mrs. Tucker, who looked worried. "She's asleep just now and she has a temperature." When Mabel heard this latter fact she at once consulted Dr. Bennett. "Father," she queried, "do folks ever die of temperature?" "Why, yes," returned the Doctor. "If the temperature is below zero they sometimes freeze. Why?" "Mrs. Tucker says that's what Bettie's got--temperature." "It isn't a disease, child. It's a condition of heat or cold. But it's too soon to say anything about Bettie--go play with your dolls." Henrietta and the remaining Cottagers immediately thought of lovely things to do for Bettie. So, too, did Mr. Black. Impulsive Henrietta purchased a large box of most attractive candy, Jean made her a lovely sponge cake that sat down rather sadly in the middle but rose nobly at both ends; Mabel begged half a lemon pie from the cook; Marjory concocted a wonderful bowl of orange jelly with candied cherries on top, Mrs. Crane made a steaming pitcherful of chicken soup and Mr. Black sent in a great basket of the finest fruit that the Lakeville market afforded. But when all these successive and well-meaning visitors presented themselves and their unstinted offerings at the Rectory door, Dr. Tucker received them sadly. "Bettie is down with a fever," said he. "She can't eat _anything_." The days that followed were the most dreadful that the Cottagers had ever known. They lived in suspense. Day after day when they asked for news of Bettie the response was usually, "Just about the same." Occasionally, however, Dr. Bennett shook his head dubiously and said, "Not quite so well to-day." For weeks--for _years_ it seemed to the disheartened children--these were the only tidings that reached them from the sick-room. There was a trained nurse whose white cap sometimes gleamed in an upper window, the grave-faced, uncommunicative doctor visited the house twice a day, a boy with parcels from the drug store could frequently be seen entering the Rectory gate and that was about all that the terribly interested friends could learn concerning their beloved Bettie. They spent most of their time hovering quietly and forlornly about Mrs. Mapes's doorstep, for that particular spot furnished the best view of the afflicted Rectory. They wanted, poor little souls, to keep as close to Bettie as possible. If the sun shone during this time, they did not know it; for all the days seemed dark and miserable. "If we could only help a little," mourned Jean, who looked pale and anxious, "it wouldn't be so bad."