With a few more kind words Dr. Ballard took his departure, and going downstairs met Mrs. Forbes.  “The little girl has a heavy feverish cold.  She understands how to take her medicine.  She will probably sleep a good deal.  Let her be quiet.”

He went on to the study, where Mr. Evringham was waiting, sitting at the desk, his head on his hand, frowning at the yellow chicken.  He looked up expectantly as the doctor entered.

“Well?” he asked.

Dr. Ballard came forward and seated himself in a neighboring chair.

“Do you know what you have upstairs there?” he asked in a low tone.

“For heaven’s sake, Guy, don’t tell me it’s something serious—­something infectious!” Mr. Evringham turned pale.

The doctor’s sudden smile was reassuring.  “It does seem to be infectious to some degree,” he returned, “but I don’t believe you’ll catch it.”

“What are you grinning at, boy?” asked the broker sharply.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Evringham, but the fact is, that you have in your house a small and young but perfectly formed and well-developed specimen of a Christian Scientist.”

“What, man!” The broker grew red again.

Dr. Ballard nodded deliberately.  “Your little granddaughter belongs to the new cult; and I can assure you she is dyed in the wool, and moreover is all wool and a yard wide.”

“The devil you say!” ejaculated Mr. Evringham.  “But,” he added with a sudden thought, “that may be a part of the poor child’s feverish nonsense.  She was full of talk of castles and giantesses and fairies and what not when I was up there.”

“Yes.  She is no flightier than you are this minute.  All these titles are those she has given to your house and household in the last two days, and according to her diagnosis, it is that indulgence from which she is suffering now, and not from too much brook.  She says she has ’voiced error.’”

The doctor looked quizzically at his friend, who returned his gaze, nonplussed.

“That’s it—­’error,’” rejoined Mr. Evringham, “that’s what she is often saying.  This explains her vocabulary, in all probability.  She has sometimes the strangest talk you ever listened to.  Well, that’s the mother’s doing, of course, and not the child’s fault.  I maintain it is not the child’s fault.  With it all, Ballard, I tell you she’s a very well meaning child—­a rather winning child, in fact.  Good natured disposition.  I hope she’s not very ill.  I do, indeed.  Ha!  That, then, is why she was so excited at the thought of having a doctor.  Tomfoolery!”

“Yes, that was it.  We’ve had some argument.”  The young doctor smiled.  “She doesn’t consider me hopeless, however.  She told me that she had mentioned to the Lord that she was sure I didn’t know it was wrong to believe in materia medica.”

No one for years had heard Mr. Evringham laugh as he laughed at this.  The doctor joined him.