“My father ran off,” volunteered Stephanie. “I think he went to be a soldier. Mrs. Raftery says it was because—”
“Stephanie! You shut up!” Mrs. Rogazrovitch jerked her by the arm. The attendant was saying something.
“Eighty-six!” he repeated. It was the number on the red ticket that Mrs. Rogazrovitch clutched in not over-clean fingers.
“Come on, you Stephanie!” snapped the mother. And the slatternly woman with the curly-haired child stepped forward to the table.
Yes; there was no doubt about it. Stephanie was a case of that tubercular eye trouble which affects so many children of the poor; a trouble caused by constitutional weakness, lack of care and of wholesome food. Unless properly treated Stephanie would become partially or wholly blind some day. And the pretty blue eyes would never play their part in a world where all the eyes are needed. But Stephanie was in one respect luckier than Paolo, who still waited, encircled by his affectionate mother’s arm. Strange negative “luck” that consisted in not being too-much loved by any one!
“You’d better leave her here,” said the Doctor, after he had examined the poor little eyes.
The woman blinked. “How long must she to stay?” she asked cautiously.
“Well, maybe three weeks; it’s an average case, I should say. We’ll take the best care of her,” he added kindly. But Mrs. Rogazrovitch was not worrying as he surmised.
“I don’ care. But will she grow well forever?” she asked. “She not be blind, eh?”
“She can be cured if you keep up the treatment as we tell you, after she goes home. You must bring her back for examination; give her milk and wholesome food, well cooked,—no doughnuts and candy; and,”—the doctor referred to Stephanie’s card,—“clean up your house and keep it in better condition. We shall keep an eye on Stephanie. And if you can’t do all this, we must find a better home for her.”