“Didn’t I tell you that?” said the boy lying in the chair. Just then an auto stopped before the house and Arden Cowell, who had been leaning with her back against the door all the time, opened it softly to admit the doctor. CHAPTER III THE DOCTOR’S ORDERS The Cowells were new to Bridgeboro and in the emergency had called Doctor Brent at random. He was brisk and efficient, seeming not particularly interested in the tragedy of the rubber ball nor the viewpoint of the juvenile audience. His prompt attention to the patient imposed a silence which made the moments of waiting seem portentous. Out of this ominous silence would come what dreadful pronouncement? He felt the boy’s pulse, he lifted him and listened at his back, he applied his stethoscope, which harmless instrument has struck terror to more than one fond parent. He said, “Huh.” “I think he must have been very nervous, doctor,” Mrs. Cowell ventured. “No, it’s his heart,” said the doctor crisply. Mrs. Cowell sighed, “It’s serious then?” “No, not necessarily. He was running too hard. Has he ever been taken like this before?” “No, never. He always ran freely.” “Hmph.” “No history of heart weakness at all, huh? Father living?” “He died fourteen years ago but it wasn’t heart trouble.” Mrs. Cowell seemed glad of the chance to talk. “We lost a little son—it wasn’t—there was nothing the matter with him—he was stolen—kidnapped. Mr. Cowell refused a demand for ransom because the authorities thought they could apprehend the criminals. We never saw our little son again. It was remorse that he had refused to pay ransom that preyed upon my husband’s mind and broke his health down. That is the little boy’s photograph on the piano.” The doctor glanced at it respectfully, then, his eye catching Arden, he said pleasantly, “You look healthy enough.” “She’s very highly strung, doctor,” said Mrs. Cowell. “Well,” said the doctor, in a manner of getting down to business, “sometimes we discover a condition that may have existed for a long time. We ought to be glad of the occasion which brings such a thing to light. Now we know what to do—or what not to do. He hasn’t been sick lately? Diphtheria or——” “Yes, he had diphtheria,” said Mrs. Cowell surprised; “he hasn’t been well a month.” “Ah,” said the doctor with almost a relish in his voice. “That’s what causes the mischief; he’ll be all right. It isn’t a chronic weakness. Diphtheria is apt to leave the heart in bad shape—it passes. Didn’t they tell you about that? That’s the treacherous character of diphtheria; you get well, then some day after a week or two you fall down. It’s an after effect that has to work off.” “It isn’t serious then, doctor?” Wilfred’s mother asked anxiously. “Not unless he makes it so. He must favor himself for a while.” “How long?” the boy asked wistfully. “Well, to be on the safe side I should say a month.” “A month from to-day?” the wistful voice asked.