Neither woman replied for a moment. When Mrs. Clyde spoke, it was with a changed voice. “Yes. You are right. I didn’t think. At least I thought only of my own children. It’s hard to learn to think like a mother of all children.” “It’s as near to the divine as any human can come,” returned the Health Master gently. “However, I think I can promise you that, if the twins and Bettykin haven’t been touched with the poison already, they shan’t get it from Charley. We’ll organize a defense—provided only the enemy hasn’t established itself already. Now the question is, where did the poison come from? We’ll have Junkum in and see if she can help us find out.” Julia, the more efficient of the eleven-year-old twins, a shrewd and observing youngster, resembling, in many respects, her grandmother, came at the doctor’s summons and was told what had befallen Charley. “Oh!” said Junkum. Then, “Can I nurse him?” “I should think not!” burst out her mother and grandmother in a breath. “Later on you can help,” said Dr. Strong. “In fact, I shall probably need your help. Now, Junkum, you remember I told you children a month ago that there was scarlet fever about and warned you to guard your mouths and noses with special care. Can you recall whether Charley has been careless?” Miss Julia took the matter under consideration. “We’ve all been, I guess,” she said. “Clara Wingate gave a party last week and there was bobbing for apples, and everybody had their faces in the same tub of water.” “Yes; and Irving Wingate has since come down with scarlet fever,” added Mrs. Clyde. “Enough said!” asserted the Health Master. “I can’t think of any better way to disseminate germs than an apple-bobbing contest. It beats even kissing games. Well, the mischief is done.” “Then they’ll all have it,” said Mrs. Clyde miserably. “Oh, let’s hope not. Nothing is more mysterious than the way contagion hits one and misses others. I should say there was at least an even chance of the rest escaping. But we must regard them as suspects, and report the house for quarantine.” “Ugh!” shuddered Mrs. Clyde. “I hate that word. And think of my husband coming home to find a flaming red placard on the house!” “We’ll give him warning before he leaves the factory. And now for our campaign. Item 1: a trained nurse. Item 2: a gas-range.” “The trained nurse, certainly,” agreed Mrs. Clyde. “But why the gas-range? Isn’t Charley’s room warm enough?” “Quite. The stove isn’t for warmth; it’s for safety. I’m going to establish a line of fire beyond which no contagion can pass. We’ll put the stove in the hall, and keep on it a tin boiler full of water just at the simmering point. Everything which Charley has used or touched must go into that or other boiling water as soon as it leaves the room: the plates he eats from, the utensils he uses; his handkerchiefs, night-clothes, towels—everything.” “That will be a hard regimen to keep up,” Mrs. Clyde objected.