"Raise him up a little," said the doctor, after he had mixed some more ammonia and water; "I want him to drink this."
Mrs. Cameron's task was easy, and there was no trouble then in getting the patient to drink, till the last spoonful or two, which he thrust away.
"It hurts me to swallow," he muttered, as if to himself—"it hurts me to swallow."
The doctor frowned, as he helped his wife to lower the poor fellow down, and examined the wrist and arm, which were now becoming terribly swollen and blotched.
"Oh, Duncan!" whispered Mrs. Cameron, "can't you do something more?"
"No," he said sadly; "one is fearfully helpless in such a case as this. Everything possible has been done; it is a fight between nature and the poison."
"And there seemed to be no time before I was trying to draw it out of the wound again."
"It is so horribly subtle," said the doctor. "What you did ought to have checked the action, but it is going on. I dread poor Kenyon's coming, and yet I am longing for it. He cannot be long."
"Duncan," whispered Mrs. Cameron, as she laid her hand tenderly upon Harry's forehead, "are you sure that he cannot understand what we say?"
"Quite."