“It is very hard that a mother cannot care for her child,” said the farmer’s wife.
“You are too fragile—we should only have you ill. She will get along finely with Mother Clement and Ange to look after her.”
“Ange?”
“Yes, he has a leaning toward medicine and I shall make him my assistant. He is coming over to my place now to get a soothing potion made up. He will bring it back and direct the administration of it. He will remain on duty here, to run over to me with the news of any change.”
“You know best, doctor; but give the poor father a word of your hope.”
“Where is he?”
“In the next room.”
“Useless,” said a voice on the threshold, “I have heard all.”
As though this was all he wanted, the pale-faced farmer withdrew and offered no opposition to this ruling of the house by the medical adviser.
The latter was not a light of science but he was a keen observer.