Grif told him.
"Is she married? Umph! What a question! Of course she's not. Poor creature! So young, too, and pretty. Sad case! Sad case!"
He took his pocket book from his pocket and made a memorandum, and then observed, "If the poor girl has any friends, they should be here. She wants care and nursing, although even they will not save her, I fear. A female friend should be with her all the night. Come with me, boy, and I will give you medicine."
In silence, Grif followed the doctor to the apothecary's shop, and in silence he received the medicine which the doctor himself made up.
"You can read?" said the doctor.
"I know some of the letters," replied Grif, "when they're stuck upon the wall very large."
"Ah!" mused the doctor, looking attentively at Grif. "Give her a wineglassful of this medicine every hour; but don't wake her to give it, if she is sleeping quietly. I will call again in the morning to see how she is getting on."
"Is she very bad?" inquired Grif.
"Very," laconically replied the doctor
"Will she die?"