Meanwhile the purse was in Helen's hand. He took it from her, and saw but a few sovereigns within the well-worn network. He drew the child a little aside.
"Answer me, my dear, frankly,—is your papa rich?—" And he glanced at the shabby clothes strewed on the chair and Helen's faded frock.
"Alas, no!" said Helen, hanging her head. "Is that all you have?"
"All."
"I am ashamed to offer you two guineas," said Mr. Digby's hollow voice from the bed.
"And I should be still more ashamed to take them. Good by, sir. Come here, my child. Keep your money, and don't waste it on the other doctor more than you can help. His medicines can do your father no good. But I suppose you must have some. He's no physician, therefore there's no fee. He'll send a bill,—it can't be much. You understand. And now, God bless you."
Dr. Morgan was off. But, as he paid the landlady his bill, he said considerately, "The poor people upstairs can pay you, but not that doctor,—and he's of no use. Be kind to the little girl, and get the doctor to tell his patient (quietly of course) to write to his friends— soon—you understand. Somebody must take charge of the poor child. And stop—hold your hand; take care—these globules for the little girl when her father dies,"—here the doctor muttered to himself, "grief,—aconite, and if she cries too much afterwards, these—(don't mistake). Tears,— caustic!"
"Come, sir," cried the coachman.
"Coming; tears,—caustic," repeated the homoeopathist, pulling out his handkerchief and his phial-book together as he got into the coach; and he hastily swallowed his antilachrymal.