But a night and a day passed, and a second, and a third, and I perceived
she had told nothing.

It was a terrible time, with many occasions of suspense more harrowing
than that. Our other children were getting on, yet still needed vigilant
care; the Baron was to be let out of his room in a day or two, but my fat
neighbor had come down with the disease, while his wife still lay between
life and death--how they finally got well, I have never quite made out,
they were so badly nursed--and all about us were new cases, and cases
beyond hope, and retarded recoveries, and relapses, and funerals, and
nurses too few, and ice scarce, and everybody worn out with watching--
physicians compelled to limit themselves to just so many cases at a time,
to avoid utterly breaking down.

As I was in my fat neighbor's sick chamber one evening, giving his nurse a
respite, word came that Fontenette was at my gate. I went to him with
misgivings that only increased as we greeted. He was dejected and
agitated. His grasp was damp and cold.

"It cou'n' stay from me always," he said in an anguished voice, and I
cried in my soul, "She's told him!"

But she had not. I asked him what his bad news was that had come at last,
but his only reply was,

"Can you take _him_? Can you take him out of my house--to-night--this
evening--now?"

"Who, the Baron? Why, certainly, if you desire it?" I responded; wondering