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“Of course, I am,” agreed Miss Whipple heartily. “But I’m just like you inside, dear.”

“No, you’re not,” disagreed Joan, frowning. “You’ve got no teeth.”

Grace slapped the child gently upon the arm.

“You’re a naughty, rude girl, Joan,” she chided. “I’m afraid you’re becoming spoiled.”

“A little spoiling is good for a child sometimes,” smiled Miss Whipple. “Now, you run along, my dear, and I’ll make my peace with Joan.

“You must let Miss Whipple mind you, Joan,” ordered Grace, as she set the child upon her feet again. “And mind, no mischief, young lady.”

“Can’t I go with you, mummy?” pleaded the child, clinging to her mother’s skirts. “I’m afraid.”

Grace frowned and Miss Whipple raised her eyebrows.

“Afraid?” asked Grace.

“I won’t hurt you, child,” declared Miss Whipple. “I won’t eat you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Joan told the old lady contemptuously. “You’re too old.”

“Then of what are you afraid, dear?” asked Grace in quick concern, going down upon one knee to hold the child by her elbows and look into her troubled eyes.

“I don’t know, mummy. It’s something here, I think.”

Joan spoke very softly and placed both hands upon her pinafore.

“A pain, dear?” asked Grace, covering both small hands with one of hers.

“No—no, mummy. Just a sort of—shaky feeling.”

“You haven’t been eating something you shouldn’t?”

“No, mummy.”

Grace studied the child’s face for a moment.

“Let me see your tongue?”