“No, Doctor Morris, I’d rather tell you; I’ve sent for you to tell you, and it isn’t so much that I blame him, poor young man, for it was all managed between his mother and Beatrice, all, from the very first, and it’s my firm belief that he had neither part nor parcel in it.  I did what I could, as in duty bound, to give him his chances, but those designers were too many for me.”

“You don’t mean,” said the doctor—­he really did not concern himself much about Northbury gossip, and no rumors of Matty’s flirtations had reached him—­“You don’t mean Captain Bertram?  Why, I have just heard he is engaged to Beatrice.  You can’t mean Captain Bertram?  Impossible.”

“I do mean Captain Bertram, doctor.  No more and no less.  And I’ll thank you not again to mention the name of that siren, Beatrice, in my presence.  Now if you’ll come upstairs, I’ll show you the poor blighted child.”

Mrs. Bell had insisted on Matty’s staying in bed.  After the first awful shock of Mrs. Butler’s news had subsided, she had made up her mind that the only role left to her daughter was that of the dying martyr.  All the town should know that Beatrice had robbed her friend, and that this young and innocent friend was now at death’s door.

Alice and Sophy were both in the room with their sister, and they were expatiating very loudly on what they considered “ma’s cruelty.”

“You know perfectly, Matty, that he never cared for you,” remarked the candid Sophy.  “It was all ma’s folly from first to last.”

“First to last,” echoed Alice.

“And you’re not really ill,” pursued Sophy.  “You slept very sound all last night.”

“And snored,” continued Alice.

“Only ma will make a fuss, one way or other,” proceeded Sophy.  “Now you’re to be the forsaken one, and what ma would like would be for your funeral bell to toll the day Bee has her wedding chimes.”

“And we all love Bee,” said Alice.

“And we’d like to go to her wedding,” said Sophy.  “Wouldn’t you, Matty?  Say, now, if you were going to have a new white muslin for it?”

It was at this juncture that the doctor and Mrs. Bell entered the room.

For a blighted invalid Matty did not look pale, and the doctor, who quickly discovered that there was no broken heart in the case, ordered his regime with a certain dry sense of humor, anything but comforting to the poor little victim.

“Miss Matty requires rest,” he said.  “Absolute rest.  And freedom from all undue excitement.  I should recommend for the next few days, complete confinement to her bed with a simple diet; no tea nor coffee, nor any stimulants.  Keep her quiet, Mrs. Bell, for while the illness lasts—­I give it no name—­under which she is laboring, she will have no desire, except to keep herself solitary.”

“And you think that will effect a cure, doctor?” asked Mrs. Bell, whose eyes had forced up a little moisture.  “The child is frail, oughtn’t she to be nourished?”