“Put them outside,” he said; “they'll never live in here. They want watering, too. Where are your saucers?”
Mrs. Hughs laid the baby down, and, going to the cupboard where all the household gods were kept, brought out two old, dirty saucers. Martin raised the plants, and as he held them, from one close, yellow petal there rose up a tiny caterpillar. It reared a green, transparent body, feeling its way to a new resting-place. The little writhing shape seemed, like the wonder and the mystery of life, to mock the young doctor, who watched it with eyebrows raised, having no hand at liberty to remove it from the plant.
“She came from the country. There's plenty of men there for her!”
Martin put the plants down, and turned round to the seamstress.
“Look here!” he said, “it's no good crying over spilt milk. What you've got to do is to set to and get some work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don't say it in that sort of way,” said Martin; “you must rise to the occasion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want a tonic. Take this half-crown, and get in a dozen pints of stout, and drink one every day.”
And again Mrs. Hughs said, “Yes, sir.”