“And the father is gone abroad?”
“Just twa months sin' syne. But eh! doctor, look ye here,” suddenly cried Elspie, as with her great, brown, but tender hand she was rubbing down the delicate spine of the now quieted babe.
“Well—what's the matter now?” said Dr. Johnson rather sulkily, as he laid down his hat and gloves, “The child is quite perfect, rather small perhaps, but as nice a little girl as ever was seen. It's all right.”
“It's no a' richt,” cried the nurse, in a tone trembling between anger and apprehension. “Doctor, see!”
She pointed with her finger to a slight curve at the upper part of the spine, between the shoulder and neck. The doctor's professional anxiety was aroused—he came near and examined the little creature, with a countenance that grew graver each instant.
“Aweel?” said Elspie, inquiringly.
“I wish I had noticed this before; but it would have been of no use,” he answered, his bland tones made earnest by real feeling.
“Eh, what?” said the nurse.
“I am sorry to say that the child is deformed—slightly so—very slightly I hope—but most certainly deformed. Hump-backed.”
At this terrible sentence Elspie sank back in her chair. Then she started up, clasping the child convulsively, and faced the doctor.