[Illustration: Elizabeth Ann stood up before the doctor.]

The doctor said back to her, as he put on his hat, all the things
doctors always say under such conditions: "More beefsteak ... plenty of
fresh air ... more sleep ... SHE'll be all right ..." but his voice did not
sound as though he thought what he was saying amounted to much. Nor did
Elizabeth Ann. She had hoped for some spectacular red pills to be taken
every half-hour, like those Grace's doctor gave her whenever she felt
low in her mind.

And just then something happened which changed Elizabeth Ann's life
forever and ever. It was a very small thing, too. Aunt Harriet coughed.
Elizabeth Ann did not think it at all a bad-sounding cough in comparison
with Grace's hollow whoop; Aunt Harriet had been coughing like that ever
since the cold weather set in, for three or four months now, and nobody
had thought anything of it, because they were all so much occupied in
taking care of the sensitive, nervous little girl who needed so much
care.

And yet, at the sound of that little discreet cough behind Aunt
Harriet's hand, the doctor whirled around and fixed his sharp eyes on
her, with all the bored, impatient look gone, the first time Elizabeth
Ann had ever seen him look interested. "What's that? What's that?" he
said, going over quickly to Aunt Harriet. He snatched out of his little
bag a shiny thing with two rubber tubes attached, and he put the ends of
the tubes in his ears and the shiny thing up against Aunt Harriet, who
was saying, "It's nothing, Doctor ... a little teasing cough I've had this
winter. And I meant to tell you, too, but I forgot it, that that sore
spot on my lungs doesn't go away as it ought to."