Her family and attendants and her governing committee wandered about the nursery, each with one closed fist hiding a candy, seeking opportunities to bend over the crib, and offer the candy to Marjorie, unseen by the others. They made quite a procession. Someone was bending over the crib every moment. Finally the doctor came and bent over the crib, too, and then all the others joined him. 

 “That child is sick,” said the doctor, taking her from the crib and concocting a potion. 

 “We knew that, doctor,” said Miss Vickers. “We knew she was quite ill.”  

 “Ill!” he said. “Ill! I said sick. Dog sick. She's overfed. Too much candy.”  

 “Oh!” they all exclaimed. “Candy! Impossible!”  

 “The rules of the committee—” began the chairman. 

 “Did she eat 'em?” asked the doctor savagely. “If she did she ought to be sick. It makes me sick to look at 'em.” He glared at the assembly. “Which of you gave her candy?” he asked. There was no reply. He turned to Marjorie. 

 “Like candy?” he asked. 

 “Yeth,” said Marjorie. 

 “Who gives you candy?” he inquired. Marjorie looked at the faces above her. She selected Chiswick. 

 “Chithy,” she declared. 

 Chiswick blushed. The others looked at her in pained surprise. 

 “Who else gives you candy?” demanded the doctor. 

 “Papa,” said Marjorie. 

 Mr. Fielding crimsoned and avoided the eyes that frowned at him. 

 Miss Vickers alone spared him. She tossed her head defiantly. 

 “I gave her candy. Lots of it. It's good for her,” she declared. 

 “Who else?” demanded the doctor. 

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