“No, sir.”
“Well, Mrs. Reisen, I wish you had kept your advice to yourself.” The Doctor went to Richling’s bedside.
“Richling, why don’t you send for your wife?”
The patient floundered in the bed and drew himself up on his pillow.
“O Doctor, just listen!” He smiled incredulously. “Bring that little woman and her baby down here just as the hot season is beginning?” He thought a moment, and then continued: “I’m afraid, Doctor, you’re prescribing for homesickness. Pray don’t tell me that’s my ailment.”
“No, it’s not. You have a bad cough, that you must take care of; but still, the other is one of the counts in your case, and you know how quickly Mary and—the little girl would cure it.”
Richling smiled again.
“I can’t do that, Doctor; when I go to Mary, or send for her, on account of homesickness, it must be hers, not mine.”
“Well, Mrs. Reisen,” said the Doctor, outside the street door, “I hope you’ll remember my request.”
“I’ll tdo udt, Dtoctor,” was the reply, so humbly spoken that he repented half his harshness.