"I don't know. Neither does the doctor. He's waiting for developments.
Took a culture to-day. She's in bed, however."

"SHE MUST NOT DIE," said Eddie, a desperate gleam in his eye. "I--
can't afford to have anything like that happen now. Can't she be
vaccinated?"

At the end of the second day thereafter it was known all over town
that Martha Gamble was ill with typhoid fever. She was running a
temperature of 104 degrees and two doctors had come up from New York
to consult with the Essex physician, bringing with them a couple of
trained nurses. They said her heart was good.

After the consultation, the General and Eddie sat alone in the
library, woebegone and disconsolate.

"They think they can pull her through," said the former vaguely.

"Curse 'em," grated Eddie; "they've GOT to do it. If there is the
least prospect of her dying, General, I must insist that the wedding
day be moved forward. I'll--I'll marry her to-day. By Jove, it might
go a long way toward reducing her temperature."

"Impossible! We shall stick to the original agreement." "Confound you,
I believe you are hoping she'll die before the eleventh of November.
It would be just like you, General Gamble."

"I'm not hoping for anything of the sort, sir," thundered the other.
"But, if it SHOULD happen--" He did not finish the sentence, but there