The truth, of which she knew nothing, was but the story of a child’s awful dismay and a child’s woe at one of Life’s first betrayals. It would be left behind by the days which came and went—it would pass—as all things pass but the everlasting hills—but in this way it was that it came and wrote itself upon the tablets of a child’s day. CHAPTER XI “The child’s always been well, ma’am,” Andrews was standing, the image of exact correctness, in her mistress’ bedroom, while Feather lay in bed with her breakfast on a convenient and decorative little table. “It’s been a thing I’ve prided myself on. But I should say she isn’t well now.” “Well, I suppose it’s only natural that she should begin sometime,” remarked Feather. “They always do, of course. I remember we all had things when we were children. What does the doctor say? I hope it isn’t the measles, or the beginning of anything worse?” “No, ma’am, it isn’t. It’s nothing like a child’s disease. I could have managed that. There’s good private nursing homes for them in these days. Everything taken care of exactly as it should be and no trouble of disinfecting and isolating for the family. I know what you’d have wished to have done, ma’am.” “You do know your business, Andrews,” was Feather’s amiable comment. “Thank you, ma’am,” from Andrews. “Infectious things are easy managed if they’re taken away quick. But the doctor said you must be spoken to because perhaps a change was needed.” “You could take her to Ramsgate or somewhere bracing.” said Feather. “But what did he _say?_” “He seemed puzzled, ma’am. That’s what struck me. When I told him about her not eating—and lying awake crying all night—to judge from her looks in the morning—and getting thin and pale—he examined her very careful and he looked queer and he said, ‘This child hasn’t had a _shock_ of any kind, has she? This looks like what we should call shock—if she were older’.” Feather laughed. “How could a baby like that have a shock?” “That’s what I thought myself, ma’am,” answered Andrews. “A child that’s had her hours regular and is fed and bathed and sleeps by the clock, and goes out and plays by herself in the Gardens, well watched over, hasn’t any chance to get shocks. I told him so and he sat still and watched her quite curious, and then he said very slow: ‘Sometimes little children are a good deal shaken up by a fall when they are playing. Do you remember any chance fall when she cried a good deal?’” “But you didn’t, of course,” said Feather.