“Well, yes,” said the Doctor, “I should say there was something of that sort.  Measles.  Mumps.  And Sin,—­that’s always catching.”

The old Doctor’s eye twinkled; once in a while he had his little touch of humor.  Silas Peckham slanted his eye up suspiciously at the Doctor, as if he was getting some kind of advantage over him.  That is the way people of his constitution are apt to take a bit of pleasantry.

“I don’t mean sech things, Doctor; I mean fevers.  Is there any ketchin’ fevers—­bilious, or nervous, or typus, or whatever you call ’em—­now goin’ round this village?  That’s what I want to ascertain, if there’s no impropriety.”

The old Doctor looked at Silas through his spectacles.

“Hard and sour as a green cider-apple,” he thought to himself.  “No,” he said,—­“I don’t know any such cases.”

“What’s the matter with Elsie Venner?” asked Silas, sharply, as if he expected to have him this time.

“A mild feverish attack, I should call it in anybody else; but she has a peculiar constitution, and I never feel so safe about her as I should about most people.”

“Anything ketchin’ about it?” Silas asked, cunningly.

“No, indeed!” said the Doctor,—­“catching?—­no,—­what put that into your head, Mr. Peckham?”

“Well, Doctor,” the conscientious Principal answered, “I naterally feel a graat responsibility, a very graiiiit responsibility, for the noomerous and lovely young ladies committed to my charge.  It has been a question, whether one of my assistants should go, accordin’ to request, to stop with Miss Venner for a season.  Nothin’ restrains my givin’ my full and free consent to her goin’ but the fear lest contagious maladies should be introdooced among those lovely female youth.  I shall abide by your opinion,—­I understan’ you to say distinc’ly, her complaint is not ketchin’?—­and urge upon Miss Darley to fulfil her dooties to a sufferin’ fellow-creature at any cost to myself and my establishment.  We shall miss her very much; but it is a good cause, and she shall go,—­and I shall trust that Providence will enable us to spare her without permanent demage to the interests of the Institootion.”

Saying this, the excellent Principal departed, with his rusty narrow-brimmed hat leaning over, as if it had a six-knot breeze abeam, and its gunwale (so to speak) was dipping into his coat-collar.  He announced the result of his inquiries to Helen, who had received a brief note in the mean time from a poor relation of Elsie’s mother, then at the mansion-house, informing her of the critical situation of Elsie and of her urgent desire that Helen should be with her.  She could not hesitate.  She blushed as she thought of the comments that might be made; but what were such considerations in a matter of life and death?  She could not stop to make terms with Silas Peckham.  She must go.  He might fleece her, if he would; she would not complain,—­not even to Bernard, who, she knew, would bring the Principal to terms, if she gave him the least hint of his intended extortions.