They were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels rolling rapidly up the avenue.

“Voici madame!” cried Mr. Brown, who flew to the door to hand Mrs. Pinckney out.

He had taken the earliest opportunity to enlighten her as to the child’s illness, for they heard her exclaim, “I know it:  oh, I have heard of it!  Where is the doctor?”

Mrs. Pinckney was tall and slight:  she had blonde hair, large, beautiful eyes—­they were blue—­and regular features.  In short, she was exceedingly pretty:  so thought Doctor Harris, and he made many salaams before her.

“Oh, doctor,” she exclaimed, rushing up to him and grasping his arm, “is there any danger?  Tell me, is there any danger?”

“Not the slightest, ma’am,” he replied promptly.

She wouldn’t be reassured:  “But why not?  Convulsions are so serious, they are so terrible!  I had a relative who was ruined for life by epilepsy:  he was a handsome fellow, but he lost good looks, mind, everything.  Oh, Doctor Harris, don’t tell me that my poor little Harry is to have epilepsy!” She had the art of puckering her forehead into a thousand wrinkles, yet looking lovely in spite of it.

“I certainly shall not tell you anything of the kind,” said the doctor with a reassuring smile, “for it wouldn’t be true; but who is the relative who had epilepsy?”

“Oh, a nephew of my husband, and he had a dreadful fall.  He fell out of a second-story window:  it was in the country, and rather a low house, but it finished him, poor fellow!  Oh, doctor, sit down:  I am tired to death, and this news has so upset me!  Will you assure me, upon your honor, that my child will never have epilepsy?”

“Sincerely, Mrs. Pinckney, I don’t think there is the least danger; but you must be careful as to what he eats.  Nuts and raisins are not a particularly wholesome diet for a child three years old.”

She looked about inquiringly, and did not seem the least surprised as her eye fell on Miss Featherstone.

The tutor, still irate from his alarm, exclaimed, “You take la bonne, madame.  I am occupy with mes eleves:  then I am not in his care.”

Mrs. Pinckney, who was not an irritable woman, took no notice of this implied reproach:  “What is to be done with him to-night, Doctor Harris?  Can you sleep here?” As he shook his head, “You’ll come the first thing in the morning?  Oh, doctor, can I go to bed and sleep comfortably?  Do you assure me that there is not the slightest danger of a recurrence of those dreadful spasms?”

When the distressed mother spoke of sleeping comfortably a smile, which all his admiration for the fair widow could not restrain, flickered over Doctor Harris’s face:  “I was about to give this young lady”—­and he turned to Miss Featherstone—­“directions for the night, as we didn’t expect you home:  she has been very kind and efficient, and was going to take care of the child; but now—­”