Marisalada had an access of coughing. The fisherman wrung his hands with grief.
“A fresh cold,” said Maria; “come, come, it is not a very extraordinary thing. But then he will consent to what this child does; the cold she takes, running, with naked feet and legs, on the rocks and on the ice.”
“She would do it,” replied Pedro.
“And why not give her healthy food—good soups, milk, eggs? But no, she eats only fish.”
“She does not wish them,” replied the father, with dejection.
“She dies from negligence,” suggested Momo, who, with arms crossed, was posted against the door-post.
“Will you put your tongue in your pocket!” said his grandma to him. She returned towards Stein:
“Don Frederico, try and examine our invalid, as she will not move, for she will let herself die rather than make a movement.”
Stein commenced by asking of the father some details of the illness of his daughter. He then approached the young girl who was drowsy, he remarked that the lungs were too compressed in their right cavity, and were irritated by the oppression. The case was grave, the invalid was feeble, from want of proper food; the cough was hard and dry, the fever constant; the consumption indeed would not allow it to pause.
“Has she always had a taste for singing?” demanded the old woman during the examination.