Dorothy Fraser was sound asleep when Effie rushed into her little room.

"Get up!" said Effie, shaking her friend by the shoulder.

As a nurse Miss Fraser was accustomed to unexpected disturbances. She opened her eyes now and gazed at Effie for a bewildered moment, then she sat up in bed and pushed back her heavy hair.

"Why, Effie," she exclaimed, "what do you want? I fancied I was back at St. Joseph's and that one of the nurses had got into trouble and had come to me, but I find I am at home for the holidays. Surely it is not time to get up yet?"

"It is only five o'clock," said Effie. "It is not the usual time to get up; but, Dorothy, father wants you. There is a bad case of illness at The Grange—very bad indeed, and father is nearly distracted, and he wants to know if you will help him just for a bit."

"Why, of course," cried Dorothy. "I shall be delighted."

"I knew you would; I knew you were just that splendid sort of a girl."

Miss Fraser knit her brows in some perplexity "Don't, Effie," she said. "I wish you would not go into such ecstasies over me; I am only just a nurse. A nurse is, and ought to be, at the beck and call of everyone who is in trouble. Now run away, dear; I won't be any time in getting dressed. I will join you and your father in a minute."

"Father will see you in the street," said Effie. "The fact is——"

"Oh, do run away," exclaimed Dorothy. "I cannot dress while you stand here talking. Whatever it is, I will be with your father in two or three minutes."

Effie ran downstairs again. Mrs. Fraser, who had let her in, had gone back to bed. Effie shut the Frasers' hall door as quietly as she could. She then went across the sunlit and empty street to where her father stood on the steps at his own door. The groom who had driven the doctor over was standing by the horse's head at a little distance.

"Well," said Dr. Staunton, "she has fought shy of it, has she?"

"No; she is dressing," said Effie. "She will be down in a minute or two."

"Good girl!" said Dr. Staunton. "You didn't happen to mention the nature of the case?"

"No, no," answered Effie; "but the nature of the case won't make any difference to her."

The doctor pursed up his mouth as if he meant to whistle; he restrained himself, however, and stood looking down the street. After a time he turned and glanced at his daughter.

"Now, Effie," he said, "you must do all you can for your mother. Don't let her get anxious. There is nothing to be frightened about as far as I am concerned. If mortal man can pull the child through, I will do it, but I must have no home cares as well. You will take up that burden—eh, little woman?"

"I will try, father," said Effie.

Just then Dorothy appeared. She had dressed herself in her nurse's costume—gray dress, gray cloak, gray bonnet. The dress suited her earnest and reposeful face. She crossed the road with a firm step, carrying a little bag in her hand.

"Well, Dr. Staunton," she said, "I hear you have got a case for me."

The doctor gazed at her for a moment without speaking.

"Bless me," he exclaimed; "it is a comfort to see a steady-looking person like you in the place. And so you are really willing to help me in this emergency?"

"Why, of course," said Dorothy. "I am a nurse."

"But you don't know the nature of the case yet!"

"I don't see that that makes any difference; but will you tell me?"

"And it is your holiday," pursued the doctor, gazing at her. "You don't take many holidays in the year I presume?"

"I have had a week, and I am quite rested," said Dorothy. "I always hold my life in readiness," she continued, looking up at him with a flash out of her dark blue eyes. "Anywhere at any time, when I am called, I am ready. But what is the matter? What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to help me to pull a child back from the borders of death."

"A child! I love children," said Dorothy. "What ails the child?"

"She has acute scarlet fever and diphtheria. No precautions have been taken with regard to sanitation. She is the child of rich people, but they have been wantonly neglectful, almost cruel in their negligence and ignorance. The mother, a young woman, is nearly certain to take the complaint and, to complicate everything, there is another baby expected before long. Now you understand. If you get into that house you are scarcely likely to go out of it again for some time."

Dorothy stood grave and silent.

"Oh, Dorothy, is it right for you to go?" exclaimed Effie, who was watching her friend anxiously.

"Yes," said Dorothy, "it is right. They may possibly be obliged to fill my place at St. Joseph's. I was only considering that point for a moment. After all, it is not worth troubling about. I am at your service, Dr. Staunton. We may require one or two other nurses to help us if things are as bad as you fear."

"God bless you!" said the doctor. Something very like moisture came into his eyes. He began to blow his nose violently. "Now, Effie, you will do your best at home," he said, turning to his daughter. "This way, please, Miss Fraser."

"Good-by, Effie, dear," said Dorothy. She kissed her friend. The doctor and the nurse walked toward the dog-cart; he helped her to mount, and then drove rapidly down the street. The vehicle was soon out of sight.

"I wonder what father will think of Dorothy after this?" thought Effie to herself. The feeling that her father would really approve of her friend gave her much consolation. She went back into the house, and as it was now half-past five, decided that it was not worth while to return to bed. There was always plenty to be done in this little house with its overflowing inhabitants, and Effie found heaps to occupy her until it was time to go into the nursery to help the little nursemaid with her various duties.

The children always hailed Effie with a scream of delight; they were not a bit afraid of her, for she was the most indulgent elder sister in the world, but all the same she managed to make them obey her.

Susan was sent downstairs to get her breakfast, while Effie saw the elder ones safely through the process of dressing. She took the baby on her knee, and, removing his night-clothes, put him into his bath, and dressed him herself quickly and expeditiously. She then carried him into her mother's room.

Mrs. Staunton had spent a troubled night.

"Is that you, Effie?" she exclaimed, looking at her daughter; "and oh, there is baby—how sweet he looks! What a splendid nurse you are, my darling, and what a wonderful comfort to me! Give me my dear little man. I will take care of him while you see about breakfast."

"How are you this morning, mother?" asked Effie. "Have you had a good night?"

"Yes, pretty well. I had one or two bad dreams. I could not help thinking of poor Mrs. Watson and that heart-trouble your father spoke about. I wonder how she is this morning."

"Now, mother dear," said Effie, "you know father said you were not to dwell upon that—you must turn your thoughts away from illness of every sort. I thought we might go for a little drive in the gig this morning."

"But your father will want the gig."

"No, that's just it, he won't."

"What do you mean? Surely he will go out as early as he can to see Mrs. Watson?"

"No, mother," said Effie, "he won't—not to-day. I have something to tell you. Now, please don't be frightened; there is nothing to be frightened about."

Mrs. Staunton was half sitting up in bed; she had thrown a little pale blue shawl round her shoulders, and held the pretty baby in her arms. She was a remarkably good-looking woman, a really young-looking woman for her age, but weakness was written all over her—the weakness of a frail although loving spirit, and the weakness of extreme bodily illness, for she was ill, far more ill than her children knew. The greatest anxiety of the honest doctor's life was connected with his wife's physical condition. Effie looked at her mother now, and something of the fear which dwelt in her father's heart seemed to visit her.

"I have something to tell you," she said, "but it is nothing that need make you the least bit afraid. Father has left you in my charge. He says I am to look after you, and to do all in my power to help you."

"But what can you mean, Effie? Has your father gone away?"

"Not really away," replied Effie, "for he is close to us, and can come back if necessary at any moment; but the fact is this: If all is well, father is not coming home for two or three days. In one way you will be pleased to hear this, mother. You know how you have wished him to be called in at The Grange."

"At The Grange!" exclaimed Mrs. Staunton, starting up. "You don't mean to tell me that the Harveys have sent for your father?"

"Yes, mother, I do; and is not that good news? The little girl is very ill, and Squire Harvey came over to fetch father last night—that time when the bell rang so suddenly."

"I remember," said Mrs. Staunton. "I made sure that someone came from the Watsons'."

"No; it was the Squire who called—Squire Harvey. Father went there and found the little girl very ill. He came back again this morning, and took Dorothy Fraser out with him as nurse, and he saw me, and he asked me to tell you that he would stay at The Grange for a couple of days until he could pull the child through, and you are on no account to expect him home, but you are to keep as well and cheerful as possible for his sake; and Dr. Edwards from Boltonville is to take father's work for the time. So you see," continued Effie in conclusion, "that the horse and gig will be at liberty, and we can go for a drive. I thought we might go to Boltonville, and take baby, and buy some fruit for preserving. There are sure to be heaps of strawberries at the Bolton Farm if we drive over early."

All the time Effie was speaking, Mrs. Staunton kept gazing at her. As the eager words flowed from the young girl's lips, the heart of the mother seemed to faint within her.

"You," she said, after a pause; her voice trembled, no words could come for an instant,—"you," she went on,—"Effie, you have not told me what ails the child?"

"She is very ill, mother; that goes without saying."

"But what ails her? Why should not your father come home?"

Effie thought for a moment. "I will tell about the scarlet fever, but not about the diphtheria," she said to herself. "Mother is always so terrified about diphtheria ever since poor little Johnny died of it, long, long ago. She won't mind scarlet fever so much."

"Why don't you speak, Effie?" exclaimed her mother. "You terrify me with your grave and silent way."

"There is nothing to be terrified about, mother, but you are weak, and therefore you get unduly nervous. I was only thinking for a moment whether you had better know; but of course, if you wish it, you must be told. The child at The Grange is suffering from scarlet fever."

"Do you think it will spread?"

"Father is very anxious. I heard him telling Dorothy that Mrs. Harvey had been very imprudent. You know how young she is, mother, and how beautiful; and she has been with this dear little child day and night from the beginning, not knowing in the least what ailed her, and Mrs. Harvey is expecting another baby, and of course father is anxious."

"I should think he is," cried Mrs. Staunton, drawn completely out of herself by the tragedy conveyed in these words. "Oh, poor young thing, poor young mother! I wish I were strong and well myself, that I might go and help her. She will have a bad time. She will have an awful risk when her baby arrives, Effie. Well, my darling, we can do nothing but pray for them all. There is One who can guide us even through dark days. Go down, Effie, and get breakfast, and then come back to me. I am very tired this morning, and will lie still for a little, now that I have got such a dear, useful daughter to take my place for me."

Effie put on a bright smile, and turned toward the door.

As she was leaving the room, her mother called out after her:

"There is one good thing, there is no diphtheria in the case; nothing terrifies me like that."

Effie shut the door hastily without reply.