It was a peaceful summer evening.  The Kid had just gone to bed and we—­Henry, Marion and I—­had foregathered in the study.  Marion spends most of her time with us, being one of those delightfully restful persons who doesn’t need to be ‘entertained,’ who doesn’t talk to you if you want to do a little writing at meal times, and is altogether a desirable visitor.  Thus, at the moment of which I write, we sat in perfect amity and silence, Henry working, I working, while every time I looked up my eyes fell on the gratifying vision of dear Marion making a blouse for me.  Suddenly the door opened and Elizabeth entered.

‘That there medicine you told me to give Miss Moira,’ she said.  ’I just been looking at it and I see it’s got your name on the bottle.’  She held it out to me as she spoke.

‘Why is The Kid taking medicine?’ inquired Marion.

‘It’s only a little tonic the doctor prescribed.  But,’ I stared at the bottle Elizabeth had brought in, ’this is my medicine.  The chemist must have mixed up the prescriptions when I took them to him.’  Suddenly I sprang to my feet.  ’Great Heavens!  My tonic contains strychnine!’

’And as you’ve been taking it for some time, I expect the dose has been increased,’ said Marion excitedly.  ’How much did you give her, Elizabeth?’

‘A teaspoonful, miss, as usual.’

I wrung my hands.  ’I take only six drops at a time myself!  What are we to do?’

‘One place I was at,’ put in Elizabeth, ’the master was rather fond of a drop too much, an’ ’e come ‘ome very late one night an’ drank spirits o’ salt thinkin’ it was something else, so we give ’im stuff to bring it up agen.’

‘Of course,’ said Marion, ‘that’s the very thing.’  Long ago, during the war, she worked in a hospital, so she affects to know something of medicines.  ’Give The Kid an emetic at once.  Ipecac.  Dose 5 minims.  Repeat, if necessary.  Or salt and water.  I’ll dash off to the doctor’s and ask him what’s to be done.’  And seizing the bottle she hurried out.

The Kid was sitting up in bed eating her supper when Elizabeth, Henry and I burst breathlessly into her room.  Her face was shining with quiet contentment.

‘Look, Mama, dear,’ she said, ’at the beautiful baked custard Elizabeth has made for my supper.  Wasn’t it kind of her?’

I snatched the custard away from her grasp.  ’Don’t eat another mouthful,’ I panted, ’you’re going to have an emetic.  You must be sick at once.’

Mutely questioning inexorable Fate, she raised large, contemplative eyes to mine. ‘Must I, Mama?  Can’t I finish my custard first?’

There is about The Kid’s character a stoic philosophy, blended, since she has known Elizabeth, with a certain fatalism.  Her habit of saying ‘Must I?’ when faced with a disagreeable duty, indicates her outlook on life.  If those in authority declare she must, then there is no more to be said about it.  They represent Fate in action.  She now yielded up the custard with a sigh, but obediently drank the mixture I handed her.  There was a pause.