“I haven’t seen Jem for some time,” said the doctor aloud, casually.  “How are you and he getting on these days?”

Kern gave an impish little exclamation:  she never liked for Mr. V.V. to mention Jem.

“Him and me mostly get off!...  Him and I mostly get off....”

And then she giggled briefly, and sprang up with eyes too bright and went skipping and kicking for the detached kitchen to see if there was any hot lightbread.

But she flung over her shoulder as she vanished:  “Jem he lacks ’magination....”

Returning with rolls, the small diplomat reverted to the question of the Mouldform Garment, which, it seemed to be settled, Mr. V.V. was to purchase on the morrow.  Kern’s endeavor was to convey the idea that, in cases such as this, many men ever made it a practice to keep the old suit by, like for rainy days, and under no circumstances to give it away to the first person comes along and asts them for it.  Clearly the reference here was to her father, the erring Mister, who had appeared at the Dabney House in June’s first blush and was now (it was presumable) wearing Mr. V.V.’s derby down many a sunny lane.

“And the shirts they got at the One-Price Company!” cooed Kern.  “And the shoes!...  Lor, them people’re givin’ away stock awmost!...”

However, Mr. V.V. did not purchase shoes and shirts next day, or even a Genuine Mouldform Garment.  For that day was Tuesday, July 17th, the day when the professional mercury in the Government “kiosk” set its new record, which was like to stand for many years.  One hundred and one it announced, not without a touch of pride; and that day Ours was the hottest city in the United States (some said in the world), and many private thermometers showed one hundred and four, five, and six.  And on that day Corinne Garland wilted abruptly in the sickening heat, and her tall machine at the Heth Works stood silent after three P.M....

Kern came home and went to bed, and suddenly all the current of life in the Dabney House was changed.  It was after five when Mr. V.V., returning from his rounds, heard the news, with a tightening feeling around his heart, and went down the long hall to see her.

The little girl lay silent, with feverish cheeks, and did not make a game of sticking out her tongue, which was certainly a bad symptom.  However, Kern was sensitive with Mr. V.V.; she didn’t like to answer his questions, wouldn’t tell the truth in fact.  It took a grizzled gentleman from the other end of town, Dr. Halstead, late physician to Mr. Armistead Beirne, to fix the diagnosis beyond doubt.  Typhoid, said he, confirming the first impression of his learned young colleague.  Kern Garland had typhoid.

Well, it wasn’t her lungs, at any rate, objects of suspicion since the pleurisy in January.  Only—­only—­how had she ever been allowed to stay on at the Works so long?...

The little girl had also a nervous constitution, hardly fitted for weathering many gales.  So observed the grizzled visitor, aside.  And, glancing about the poor room with its sway-backed double bed, he advised that she be sent off to a hospital without delay, and so smiled cheerily at the small patient and went chugging back to his handsome house on Washington Street, having pooh-poohed all mention of a fee.