She began to wipe the flour off her arms. "What is the matter? What does he act like?"
Oh, the incredible coolness and slowness of the woman! "Oh, Mrs. Chard, he's stiff and blue—he's perhaps dead by now. He looked awful."
Mrs. Chard turned to her stove. She lifted the lid off the teakettle and looked in. "Full," she said, "and boiling. It sounds like convulsions. Just you bring this along, Mr. Vale. Children, be good while I'm gone." She shut the door and followed Derek heavily through the yard.
He showed her where the child was lying, but he could not bear to go into the room with her because of what he might see. He felt more afraid than he had ever felt in his life before, a new, sick, helpless sort of fear. Buckskin was so little, so young.
After a moment she came to the door. "Fill his bath," she said. "Make the water as hot as you can bear your hand in. I'll strip him. He'll be all right, I think."
Glad to do something, Derek got the little green tin bath, filled it, and tested the water with a shaking hand. Mrs. Chard came out carrying the baby. Derek turned away. He could not look.
Ages of misery passed. Mrs. Chard was speaking: "Now, what a good little boy. My, my, what a good little boy. Look around, Mr. Vale."
He turned. Buckskin lay in the bath, his body, steaming, scarlet, supported by her hand, his face bewildered but—thank God!—natural. He looked at Mrs. Chard, he looked at Derek, then he smiled, pushing forward his lower teeth and wrinkling his nose in a funny way he had.
Derek went to him. "Is he all right?" he asked. "Shall I get a doctor?"
"I wouldn't now. You might ask the doctor to advise you about him, but just now he's all right. One of mine
