"We thought she was coming to," said Reuben to Miss Warren, "but she's gone back worse than ever."
"Mr. Morton, I wish you to give to all a cup of that coffee and take some yourself," said the physician, in a quiet but authoritative voice. "Mr. Yocomb, you must not rise; you will be ill again, and I now need all the help I can get with this child. We must try artificial respiration, spraying the chest with cold water, and every possible means."
"Would to God that I could help thee!" cried Mrs. Yocomb.
"You can help by keeping absolutely quiet. Mr. Morton, in this emergency you must become as a brother or one of the family."
"I am one with them to-night," I said earnestly; "let me help you in any way."
"You three must rub her with flannel and spirits, while I lift her arms slowly up and down to try to induce respiration."
The poor limp little body—how sacred it seemed to me!
We worked and worked till the perspiration poured from our faces. Every expedient was tried, until the physician at last desisted and stood back for a moment in anxious thought.
Then, in a tone broken with anguish, Mr. Yocomb exclaimed:
"Would to God the bolt had fallen on my head, and not on this dear little lamb."