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Evidently the advice that had so promptly been given was not agreeable; for when Josephine looked up from the floor where she was dressing Rudanthy, mamma was crying softly, and Doctor Mack was saying in his gravest take-your-medicine-right-away kind of a voice that there was “nothing else to do.”

“Oh, my poor darling! She is so young, so innocent. I cannot, I cannot!” wailed the mother.

“She is the most self-reliant, independent young lady of her age that I ever knew,” returned the doctor.

Josephine realized that they were talking about her, but didn’t see why that should make her mother sad. It must be all the cousin-doctor’s fault. She had never liked him since he had come a few weeks before, and scratched her arm and made it sore. “Vaccinated” it, mamma had said, to keep her from being ill sometime. Which had been very puzzling to the little girl, because “sometime” might never come, while the arm-scratching had made her miserable for the present. She now asked, in fresh perplexity: