If it be diphtheria Lockwin will use whisky plentifully. It is his
hobby that whisky is the only antidote.

Dr. Floddin has taken charge. He believes that whisky would increase
Davy's fever. "It is not diphtheria," he says. "Be assured on that
point. It is probably asthma."

Whatever it may be, it is terrible to David Lockwin, and to Esther, and
to all.

The child draws his breath with a force that sometimes makes itself
heard all over the house. He must be treated with emetics. He is in
the chamber this Wednesday night, on a couch beside the great bed. The
room has been hot, but by what chance does the furnace fail at such a
moment? It is David Lockwin up and down, all night--now going to bed
in hope the child will sleep--now rising in terror to hear that shrill
breathing--now rousing all hands to heat the house and start a fire at
the mantel. Where is Dr. Cannoncart's book? Read that. Ah, here it
is. "For asthma, I have found that stramonium leaves give relief.
Make a decoction and spray the patient."

Off the man goes to the drug store for the packet of stramonium. It
must be had quickly. It must be boiled, and that means an hour. It is
incredible that the fire should go out! The man sweats a cold liquor.
He feels like a murderer. He feels bereft. He is exhausted with a
week of political orgy.

And yet along toward morning, as the gray morn grows red in response to
the stained glasses and rich carpetings, the room is warm once more.
The whistling in the child's throat is less shrill. The man and the