He was sickly looking, with an expression of
helpless peevishness about his otherwise pleasing mouth; his hair was
wavy and of a golden colour, and his hands were thin and white, like
those of a baby girl.
His mother persuaded herself that in multiplying and dwelling upon his
complaints, she was caring for him with affectionate solicitude, and
to be told that he was not looking well, was enough to convince
Freddie that his life was hanging upon a thread, and that he must
swallow powders and pills without a question or a grimace.
One morning towards the end of August, about a fortnight before my
return to school, I heard my step-mother remark in a fretful tone that
"Freddie's old symptoms" were "beginning to threaten him again," and
that she "must send for Dr Campbell to come and see him."
I looked up with some astonishment from the book which I was reading,
and ventured to ask.
"Cannot papa cure him?"
"I suppose he could," she answered, "if he were not his father, but
Freddie won't listen to his papa's directions, and cannot be persuaded
to take the remedies he prescribes--besides," she continued
apologetically, "when your father was away last fall and Freddie had a
very miserable attack, I called in Dr. Campbell, and he cured him in a
fortnight, he is very clever," she added with slow emphasis,
straightening a fancy panel on the mantelpiece by which she stood.
There was silence for a few moments, as I went on reading.
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