“I am just; at least, I wish to be just,” he broke forth in impassioned tones.  “But I cannot be severe with Edward and Maude.”

Another powder was procured, and, amidst much fighting and resistance, was administered.  Lady Hartledon was in the boy’s room the first thing in the morning.  One grand quality in her was, that she never visited her vexation on the children; and Edward, in spite of his unamiable behaviour, did at heart love her, whilst he despised his grandmother; one of his sources of amusement being to take off that estimable old lady’s peculiarities behind her back, and send the servants into convulsions.

“You look very hot, Edward,” exclaimed Lady Hartledon, as she kissed him.  “How do you feel?”

“My throat’s sore, mamma, and my legs could not find a cold place all night.  Feel my hand.”

It was a child’s answer, sufficiently expressive.  An anxious look rose to her countenance.

“Are you sure your throat is sore?”

“It’s very sore.  I am so thirsty.”

Lady Hartledon gave him some weak tea, and sent for Mr. Brook to come round as soon as possible.  At breakfast she met the dowager, who had been out the previous evening during the powder episode.  Lady Hartledon mentioned to her husband that she had sent a message to the doctor, not much liking Edward’s symptoms.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked the dowager, quickly.  “What are his symptoms?”

“Nay, I may be wrong,” said Lady Hartledon, with a smile.  “I won’t infect you with my fears, when there may be no reason for them.”

The countess-dowager caught at the one word, and applied it in a manner never anticipated.  She was the same foolish old woman she had ever been; indeed, her dread of catching any disorder had only grown with the years.  And it happened, unfortunately for her peace, that the disorder which leaves its cruel traces on the most beautiful face was just then prevalent in London.  Of all maladies the human frame is subject to, the vain old creature most dreaded that one.  She rose up from her seat; her face turned pale, and her teeth began to chatter.

“It’s small-pox!  If I have a horror of one thing more than another, it’s that dreadful, disfiguring malady.  I wouldn’t stay in a house where it was for a hundred thousand pounds.  I might catch it and be marked for life!”

Lady Hartledon begged her to be composed, and Val smothered a laugh.  The symptoms were not those of small-pox.

“How should you know?” retorted the dowager, drowning the reassuring words.  “How should any one know?  Get Pepps here directly.  Have you sent for him?”

“No,” said Anne.  “I have more confidence in Mr. Brook where children are concerned.”

“Confidence in Brook!” shrieked the dowager, pushing up her flaxen front.  “A common, overworked apothecary!  Confidence in him, Lady Hartledon!  Elster’s life may be in danger; he is my grandchild, and I insist on Pepps being fetched to him.”