The young girl walked in, sat down in a large leathern chair, and was
taking out her purse to pay her driver when a little fat man, with a
very red face and bushy black hair, came flying through the hall,
carrying a child in his arms. He was followed by two or three sobbing
children and the girl whom Miss Featherstone had already seen. "My dear
mees," he said, never stopping until he reached the governess, "see
this leetle enfant, this cher petit Henri. He has already one
contortion--spasm--what you call it?--and I fear he goes to have one
other. Ma chere mademoiselle, have you some experience? Is it that you
know what we shall do?"
The child lay pale and unconscious in the arms of the distressed little
foreigner. Miss Featherstone tore off her gloves; her purse, unheeded,
fell on the floor; she led the way into the nearest room, which proved
to be the dining-room, the helpless group following. "Bring a tub of
hot water for his feet," she said in calm, decided tones. She was
seated, and had taken the child in her arms.--"Now, monsieur"--to the
Frenchman--"will you be kind enough to give me some ice from that
pitcher on the sideboard behind you?"
She drew a delicate little handkerchief from her pocket, and, putting
pieces of ice in it, held it to the child's head.
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