“But it nearly drives me mad.”
“Then don't let it. The child won't die, I tell you. She will be all right, with care. Who have you got sitting up with her? You're not to sit up with her tonight, I tell you. Do you hear me?”
“Miss Smitham's coming in. But it's no good—I shall have to sit up. I shall HAVE to.”
“I tell you you won't. You obey ME. I know what's good for you as well as for her. I am thinking of you as much as of her.”
“But I can't bear it—all alone.” This was the beginning of tears. There was a dead silence—then a sound of Millicent weeping with her mother. As a matter of fact, the doctor was weeping too, for he was an emotional sympathetic soul, over forty.
“Never mind—never mind—you aren't alone,” came the doctor's matter-of-fact voice, after a loud nose-blowing. “I am here to help you. I will do whatever I can—whatever I can.”
“I can't bear it. I can't bear it,” wept the woman.
Another silence, another nose-blowing, and again the doctor:
“You'll HAVE to bear it—I tell you there's nothing else for it. You'll have to bear it—but we'll do our best for you. I will do my best for you—always—ALWAYS—in sickness or out of sickness—There!” He pronounced there oddly, not quite dhere.
“You haven't heard from your husband?” he added.