Chapter 11

"The child's always been well, ma'am," Andrews was standing, the
image of exact correctness, in her mistress' bedroom, while Feather
lay in bed with her breakfast on a convenient and decorative little
table. "It's been a thing I've prided myself on. But I should say
she isn't well now."

"Well, I suppose it's only natural that she should begin sometime,"
remarked Feather. "They always do, of course. I remember we all had
things when we were children. What does the doctor say? I hope it
isn't the measles, or the beginning of anything worse?"

"No, ma'am, it isn't. It's nothing like a child's disease. I could
have managed that. There's good private nursing homes for them in
these days. Everything taken care of exactly as it should be and no
trouble of disinfecting and isolating for the family. I know what
you'd have wished to have done, ma'am."

"You do know your business, Andrews," was Feather's amiable comment.

"Thank you, ma'am," from Andrews. "Infectious things are easy
managed if they're taken away quick. But the doctor said you must
be spoken to because perhaps a change was needed."

"You could take her to Ramsgate or somewhere bracing." said Feather.
"But what did he SAY?"

"He seemed puzzled, ma'am. That's what struck me. When I told him
about her not eating--and lying awake crying all night--to judge from
her looks in the morning--and getting thin and pale--he examined
her very careful and he looked queer and he said, 'This child hasn't
had a SHOCK of any kind, has she? This looks like what we should
call shock--if she were older'."

Feather laughed.

"How could a baby like that have a shock?"

"That's what I thought myself, ma'am," answered Andrews. "A child
that's had her hours regular and is fed and bathed and sleeps by
the clock, and goes out and plays by herself in the Gardens, well
watched over, hasn't any chance to get shocks. I told him so and
he sat still and watched her quite curious, and then he said very
slow: 'Sometimes little children are a good deal shaken up by a
fall when they are playing. Do you remember any chance fall when
she cried a good deal?'"

"But you didn't, of course," said Feather.

"No, ma'am, I didn't. I keep my eye on her pretty strict and
shouldn't encourage wild running or playing. I don't let her play
with other children. And she's not one of those stumbling, falling
children. I told him the only fall I ever knew of her having was a
bit of a slip on a soft flower bed that had just been watered--to
judge from the state her clothes were in. She had cried because