But Father Daniels
next door turned them every one away.
"He can't talk any more," he said in his abrupt, yet kindly way. "He's
just worn out talking to this bunch,--that's all that ails him."
Next day the doctor came again, gave another examination, and said
there was some little congestion in the lungs.
"Just do as I have told you,--keep the windows up, drink a lot of fresh
milk, and eat all the raw eggs you can choke down."
"He won't eat anything," said Carol.
"Let him fast then, and he'll soon be begging for raw eggs. I'll see
you again to-morrow."
When he returned next day there was a little shadow in the kind eyes.
David lay on the cot, smiling, and Carol stood beside him.
"How do you feel to-day?"
"Oh, just fine," came the ready answer.
But the shadow in the doctor's eyes deepened.
"The meanest part of a doctor's work is handing out death blows to
hope," he said. "But you two are big enough to take a hard knock
without flinching, and I won't need to beat around the bush. Mr. Duke,
you have tuberculosis."
David winched a little and Carol clutched his hand spasmodically, yet
they smiled quickly, comfortingly into each other's eyes.
"That does not mean that your life is fanning out, by any means,"
continued the doctor in his easy voice.
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