“Mushrooms!” echoed Mrs. Larabee, gravely, shaking her head.  And a score of other women looking over her shoulder at the child, who lay breathing heavily with his eyes shut, shook their heads, too.

“You’d better take him right home with me, dearie,” Mrs. Larabee said gently, with a significant glance at the watching circle.  “We oughtn’t to lose any time.”

Dr. Lowell stepped out beside her and gently took Danny in his arms.

“I hope you’ll let me carry him over there for you, Mrs. Waters,” said he.  “There’s no question that he’s pretty sick.  We’ve got a hard fight ahead.”

There was a little sensation in the room, but Shandon only looked at him uncomprehendingly.  In her eyes there was the dumb thankfulness of the dog who knows himself safe with friends.  She wet her lips and tried to speak.  But before she could do so, the doctor’s mother touched his arm half timidly and said: 

“Arnold, you can’t very well—­surely, it’s hardly fair to Mary—­”

“Mary—?” he answered her quickly.  He raised his eyes to where his wife-to-be, in a startled group of white-clad attendants, was standing halfway down the stairway.

She looked straight at Shandon, and perhaps at no moment in their lives did the two women show a more marked contrast; Shandon muddy, exhausted, haggard, her sombre eyes sick with dread, Mary’s always fragile beauty more ethereal than ever under the veil her mother had just caught back with orange blossoms.  Shandon involuntarily flung out her hand toward her in desperate appeal.

“Couldn’t you—­could you jest wait till he sees Danny?” she faltered.

Mary ran down the remaining steps and laid her white hand on Shandon’s.

“If it was ten weddings, we’d wait, Shandon!” said she, her voice thrilling with the fellowship of wifehood and motherhood to come.  “Don’t worry, Shandon.  Arnold will fix him.  Poor little Danny!” said Mary, bending over him.  “He’s not awful sick, is he, Arnold?  Mother,” she said, turning, royally flushed, to her stupefied mother, “every one’ll have to wait.  Johnnie and Arnold are going to fix up Shandon’s baby.”

“I don’t see the slightest need of traipsing over to the hotel,” said Mrs. Dickey, almost offended, as at a slight upon her hospitality.  “Take him right up to the spare room, Arnold.  There ain’t no noise there, it’s in the wing.  And one of you chil’ren run and tell Aggie we want hot water, and—­what else?  Well, go ahead and tell her that, anyway.”

“Leave me carry him up,” said one big, gentle father, who had tucked his own baby up only an hour ago.  “I’ve got a kimmoner in my bag,” old Mrs. Lowell said to Shandon.  “It’s a-plenty big enough for you.  You git dry and comfortable before you hold him.”  “Shucks!  Lloydy ate a green cherry when he wasn’t but four months old,” said one consoling voice to Shandon.  “He’s got a lot of fight in him,” said another.  “My Olive got an inch screw in her throat,” contributed a third.  Mrs. Larabee said in a low tone, with her hand tight upon Shandon’s shaking one, “He’ll be jest about fagged out when the doctor’s done with him, dearie, and as hungry as a hunter.  Don’t you git excited, or he’ll be sick all over again.”