“Die, Peter? That little girl? What’s the matter?” cried Michael.
“Goodness knows, I don’t. She can’t hardly breathe, she can’t. Massa Joe’s sent for his doctor and his doctor he’s out, and we don’t have no faith in them others round the square, and—Will some of your women please just step in and take a look at our poor little missy?”
Michael darted back into the sitting-room, exclaiming:
“Grandma, that little girl next door is awful sick. Peter’s frightened most to death himself. He wants some of our women to go in there and help them.”
“Our women! Of what use would they be, either of them? I’ll go myself. Ring for Mary, please,” said the old lady, rising.
The maid appeared, and was directed to bring:
“My shawl and scarf, Mary. I’m going in next door to see a sick child. You stay right here in the hall and keep the latch up, so that there’ll be no delay if I send in for you or anything needed. Yes, Michael, you may go with me to help me up and down the steps, though you ought to be in bed. Yet come. It must be something serious for Mr. Smith to thus far forego his reserve.”
Uncle Joe was waiting at the head of the stairs as Mrs. Merriman ascended them, with that activity upon which she prided herself, and asked:
“Are you in trouble, neighbor? What is it?”
“The little girl. I don’t know whose even. Came to me, an express ‘parcel,’ and I haven’t traced the blunder, found the right—no matter. This way, please. I’ll explain later.”