The landlady soon came running in, followed by her servant girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, and smelling-salts; and under their treatment the child came to herself after a while, and was able to thank them in a faint voice.
Without suffering her to speak another word, the women carried her off to bed; and having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they sent for the doctor.
He came with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch and felt her pulse. Next he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again. At last he said very gravely, "Put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise," he went on, "give her something light for supper—say the wing of a roasted fowl."
"Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this instant!" cried the landlady. And so, indeed, it was; for the schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried—perhaps he did.
While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a deep sleep, from which they were forced to rouse her when it was ready. As she was greatly troubled at the thought of being parted from her grandfather, the old man took his supper with her.
Finding her still very restless about him, they made him up a bed in an inner room. The key of this chamber was on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; the poor child turned it on him when the landlady had gone, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart.
In the morning the child was better, but she was very weak, and would need at least a day's rest and careful nursing before she could go on her journey. The schoolmaster at once said that he had a day to spare—two days for that matter—and could well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he said he would visit her in her room at a certain hour, and going out with his book, he did not return until that hour arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at the sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself.
"It makes me unhappy, even in the midst of all this kindness," said the child, "to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank you? If I had not met you so far from home I must have died, and he would have been left alone."
"We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster; "and as to burdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage."