“She isn’t my child, doctor, but do you care for her as if she were. Spare no expense. She must not, she must not die upon my hands. I’d no right to retain her as long as I have, but—but— Don’t let her die, doctor, and you’ll save me from everlasting remorse.”
“Go below, Mr. Smith. Peter, attend your master. There are enough of us here, and this little lady will soon be all right. It’s croup only, and— What has she been eating lately?”
“What has she not? How can I tell? But one thing I know, she ate no dinner to-night,” answered the host.
“So much the better. Now, Mr. Smith”—a wave of the hand in the direction of the doorway suggested that the master of the house was banished from the sickroom.
Daylight was breaking when at last the doctor led Mrs. Merriman down the stairs and to her own home, leaving Mary and Peter on watch, and promising a speedy return, with the assurance that all danger was now past. At the door of the library the old lady paused and looked in. Mr. Smith still sat erect in his chair, and seemed as wide awake as she was drowsy, and she advised him:
“Go to bed, neighbor. The little one is all right again. We’ve had a tussle for it, but she’s pulled through. Go to bed and get some rest. I’m really sorry for you that this uninvited trouble has come upon you, and will help you share it, so far as I may. But, doubtless, we’ll all see why it was allowed, before we’ve done with it.”
He returned, gallantly enough:
“For one reason, it may be, madam, to render me more just and tolerant to my neighbors. You have laid me under great”—
But she checked him, saying:
“Beg pardon, under nothing at all. It was the little child for whom I came, and if I have served you, too, why so much the better. Good morning.”