"She is very ill—she has been ill for months. Are you a doctor, sir?"
"No. What does the doctor who is attending her say?"
"We have none, sir."
"But why? Surely in a matter of life or death one is necessary." I continued to ring and beat on the door.
"I know, I know," she murmured. "Oh, will he never come?"
I gathered from this mournful reply that they were poor and could not afford a doctor, which was presently confirmed. My vigorous summons was successful in arousing the chemist, who, with a sleepy and unwilling air, opened the door and admitted us. Now, by the light in the shop, I saw that the woman was young, hardly yet out of her teens, and though grief was stamped too plainly upon her countenance, that she was fair and prepossessing. So modest and gentle was she that I was filled with pity for her. Her eyes were dim with tears, her hair had become loosened and hung in lovely disorder upon her white neck, her features bore traces of exhausting vigil. With a trembling hand she held out a prescription, saying in a wistful tone:
"I am sorry to disturb you, but my mother is much worse to-night. I will pay you to-morrow—I have some work to take back."
He grumbled a little and hesitated, and I, stepping back so that the young woman could not see my action, nodded to him and held up my purse. Understanding from this that I intended to pay him he made up the medicine and gave her the bottle, with which, after expressing her gratitude, she was about to depart, when I said to her:
"Will you wait for me a moment at the door? You may trust me."
The sincerity I felt must have made itself manifest in my voice, for she bent her head slightly, and waited for me outside.