The Imp and the Angel
"Chills, madam? Pneumonia?" said the gruff old man. "Not a bit of it! Not a bit of it! Send your boy out with them and make a man of him: he's white as a potato sprout! Let him get a knock or two, and he won't tumble over so easily!" He shoved the Imp and Tracy out of the way, and they ran up to where reproaches and clean clothes waited for them. He was a famous old man, and he was not to be contradicted, so Mrs. Schuyler only smiled, and said her angel was a little too delicate for such rough treatment, and the matter passed off without further notice.
But all through his potato and mutton the Imp gazed steadily at Algernon Marmaduke Schuyler. How white his face was—as white as a potato sprout! How dull his life must be! Tied to a nurse all day—none of that privacy so necessary to the carrying out of a thousand fascinating plans; dressed so tightly and whitely; taking so many naps and getting nothing but mush and eggs to eat—how horrible the summer must seem to him! The Imp had more friends than he could remember, and was making new ones every day; but who played with "his mother's angel"? Katy, the chambermaid, did not bring the darling little
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