“He should go by the fields,” he said, though he well knew that to be the longest way; and he would have done so, had not Mrs. Wingfield roused herself to such anger, that even her rude and undutiful son did not dare to disobey her.
The doctor came in about an hour, Tom having happily found him at home, and, with an anxiety which those who have attended beloved ones in the hour of sickness only can tell, Mrs. Bright and Polly listened for his opinion of the case. The doctor examined the child, and asked questions concerning his illness: “How long had the fit lasted?” There was a most painful pause. Mrs. Bright looked at her daughter. Polly could not utter a word; it was not till the question was repeated that the distressing reply, “No one knows,” was given.
“Was the child long ailing?”
“How was he when you left him?” said Mrs. Bright to the miserable Polly.
“Very well—that’s to say—I don’t exactly—he was—I think—”
“There has been gross negligence here,” said the doctor sternly; “gross negligence,” he repeated, “and it may cost the child his life.”
Polly could only clasp her hands in anguish; but the mother exclaimed, “Oh, sir, is there no hope for my boy?”
“While there is life there is hope,” replied the doctor in a more kindly tone; “he must be bled at once. Have you a basin here?” he added, taking a small instrument-case from his pocket.
Polly was at all times timid and nervous, and quite unaccustomed to self-command, and now, when she would have given worlds to have been useful, her hand shook so violently, her feelings so overcame her, that there was no chance of her doing anything but harm.
“Give the basin to me, dear,” said a gentle voice behind her; Minnie Wingfield had just entered the cottage. “You look so ill, you must not be present. Go up-stairs, Polly; I will help your mother.”