About noon she received another message. It read: “Patient's condition unchanged. No cause for alarm.” She crumpled it in her hand and threw it on the floor. It had interrupted an inspiring conversation on the Higher Life. When the doctor visited Marjorie about noon he sat fully five minutes with her, which was unusually long for such a busy man, and as he left he gravely remarked that he would drop in during the evening. He did not like the way those red spots were fading. When he returned he frowned. Mr. Fielding was sitting on the cribside holding one of Marjorie's hot hands and gently passing his fingers over her brow. The private secretary was on her knees at the other side of the crib. But the doctor did not frown at either of these. “I don't like her condition, at all,” he said. “Not at all. But I'll try to pull her through. Telephone my wife I'll not be home to-night, will you?” Marjorie lay in open-eyed listlessness, staring upward at nothing. Her breath was short and rapid, and her heart beat like the quick strokes of a trip hammer. She wondered vaguely why this strange thing was happening to her, and when the private secretary touched her she tried to smile, and only succeeded in making white lines about her drawn, dry lips. It was nine o'clock when Mrs. Fielding arose to read her paper before the national convention, and as she arose she was handed a telegram. It was from the committee. “Patient seriously ill. Best possible medical attendance. Do not worry.” Mrs. Fielding read it and walked to the rostrum. “President and ladies,” her paper began, “my child is an example of the benefits of scientific motherhood,” but she did not read it so. As she stood facing her audience, her paper trembled in her hand, and as she looked at the lines written upon it they said but one thing--“Patient seriously ill.” “President and ladies,” she began, “my child is--my child is--” The lines vanished and she faltered. “My child,” she said, “is--is very ill to-night. I must go, of course. You must excuse me,” and she turned and fled. It was rather odd that the first articulate word that Marjorie said in her life was uttered about that time. She had grown more irritable and had pushed away her father's hand and the drink that the private secretary offered her. “What do you want, little girl?” Miss Vickers asked, and Marjorie, whole weeks ahead of her schedule, said, “Ma-ma.” III. For an incubator baby, Marjorie handled the measles remarkably well. After a first reluctant period when she seemed to prefer death to disfigurement, she blossomed into exceeding spotfulness and rioted in soda baths, and then she gently faded into her usual pink-and-white-ness. The effect on her system was excellent, but to Chiswick, her faithful nurse, it brought distress.