It was an old college tune that rose on the air.  Miss Allison had parodied the words of the peanut song: 

     Any fellow that has any mea-sles
     And giveth his neighbour none,
     He sha’n’t have any of my measles
     When his mea-sles are gone. 
     Oh, that will be joyful, joyful,
     Oh, that will be joyful, when his mea-sles are gone.

Then they sang, “My love is like the red, red rose” and “Pop goes the weasel, the queen’s got the measles.”  They were all silly little ditties, but the personal allusions made them interesting to the girls, and there was a storm of applause from the upper windows after each one.  Mrs. Sherman brought out cake and lemonade to the serenaders, and the girls hung out of the windows as far as they dared, to see what was going on below.

“If we only hadn’t gone to that horrid old gypsy camp,” lamented the Little Colonel, “we might be down there now, having a share of the good time.  What are you all laughing at?” she called.  “It is simply maddening to be up here and listen to you and not know.”

Malcolm leaned out of the carriage to sing, teasingly, “Thou art so near and yet so far,” adding, “Never mind, Lloyd, we’ll come again to-morrow, and bring a travelling show with us.  Look out for us early in the morning, before it begins to get hot.”

“What do you suppose those boys are going to do?” asked Eugenia, as Lloyd drew in her head, and the carriage rolled off, the serenaders still singing.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.  There’s nothing to do but wait and see.”

Although the question was asked several times that evening before bedtime, and the girls amused themselves for a quarter of an hour guessing what kind of a travelling show was to be brought by for their entertainment, not one of them thought of it again next morning.  The doctor had decided that their eyes were well enough to bear the light, and, at his visit, threw open several of the blinds.  Mrs. Sherman drove down to the station, and Mom Beck went to the servants’ cottage.  Only Eliot was left to keep an eye on the invalids, and she had been invited to bring her sewing and listen to a story that Betty was reading aloud.  They had grown very fond of patient old Eliot, for she had been the kindest and best of nurses in their illness.  The girls were all lounging around the room in wrappers, each with her own particular Bob in her lap.

The reading had gone on for about half an hour, when Eliot’s sewing suddenly slid from her lap to the floor, and a queer rattle in her throat made every one look up in alarm.  At first they thought that she must be having some kind of a fit.  Her hands were thrown up, her mouth dropped open, there was a look of wild terror in her staring eyes, and her face was deathly pale.  It was terrifying to see a grown woman seem so frightened.  She was pointing to the door, and, as their eyes followed her shaking finger, they forgot her fear in their own fright.