“He is here, my poor dove,” cried Mrs Berens. “Don’t you know him—Dr North?”
“Yes; but send—for some one—a doctor.”
“A little wandering,” whispered North, bending over Mary, who tried to shrink from him. “Now,” he said gently, “try and tell me where you feel pain. I must see to it at once.”
“No, no. Don’t touch me—a doctor—send for a doctor,” answered Mary.
“But Mr North is a doctor, my poor dear,” cried Mrs Berens.
“Send—for a doctor,” whispered Mary again; and then she uttered a faint cry of indignation and dread commingled as, thinking of nothing but the case before him, the doctor began to make the necessary preliminary examination, to stop short at the end of a minute, and lay his hand upon the patient’s forehead, aghast at the discovery he felt that he had made.
“Don’t resent this,” he said kindly. “Believe me, it is necessary, and I will not give you more pain than I can help.”
“Mrs Berens,” sobbed the poor girl, “your hand.”
“My darling!” cried the widow, taking the extended hand, to hold it pressed against her lips.
“Now, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I want you to move yourself gently—a little more straight upon the couch.”