"Very good. On the clock shelf in the sitting-room there is a bottle
of sweet spirits of nitre; it's the only bottle there, so you can't
make any mistake. It will help until the doctor comes. I wonder you
didn't send for him yesterday?"

"Davy wouldn't have him," apologised his uncle.

"WOULDN'T he?" inquired Lyddy with cheerful scorn. "He has you under
pretty good control, hasn't he? But children are unmerciful
tyrants."

"Couldn't you coax him into it before you go home?" asked Anthony in
a wheedling voice.

"I can try; but it isn't likely I can influence him, if you can't.
Still, if we both fail, I really don't see what's to prevent our
sending for the doctor in spite of him. He is as weak as a baby, you
know, and can't sit up in bed: what could he do? I will risk the
consequences, if you will!"

There was a note of such amiable and winning sarcasm in all this,
such a cheery, invincible courage, such a friendly neighbourliness
and co-operation, above all, such a different tone from any he was
accustomed to hear in Edgewood, that Anthony Croft felt warmed
through to the core.

As he walked quickly along the road, he conjured up a vision of
autumn beauty from the few hints nature gave even to her sightless
ones on this glorious morning--the rustle of a few fallen leaves