"We cannot consider taking her away with us now," said Mrs. Force,
with decision. "You can't expect us to expose ourselves to--"

"No, you can't, Bingle," broke in Mr. Force. "It's not to be thought
of. She's got to stay here until--until the thing's over."

"That is to say, until she gets well or dies," said Mr. Bingle,
raising his voice.

"Oh, I'll send out a good doctor and a couple of nurses. And, see
here, I don't want this child cooped up with all the rest of 'em. I
want her placed in a separate room, as far as possible from the--"

"By jingo!" cried Mr. Bingle. "I believe it would be a good thing for
the child if she caught it and died. Good day, Mrs. Force. Better move
rapidly, Force. You see, I've been exposed--and so has Diggs. We're
alive with microbes."

And that is why Kathleen did not go South early in March--not until
late in April, for that matter, when she had completely recovered from
a particularly stubborn illness, and long after all of the others,
except little Imogene, were up and about. Imogene died.

Miss Fairweather was the angel in this season of tribulation. She was
true blue. Day and night she gave up to the care of the sick ones, and
when it was all over the roses in her cheeks were missing, but the
light in her eyes was bright.

Then Kathleen went away. Mr. Force, considerably humbled, apologised
to Mr. Bingle for as many things as he could remember, and Mrs. Force,