Ma was waiting in her parlor.
Now, it was Aslak of Vaelta who had cut his foot last Thursday hewing timber—Ma had bandaged him—and then Anders, who lived in the cottage, was in a lung fever. The parish clerk had been there and bled him; six children up in that hut—not good if he should be taken away.
"We will put a good Spanish-fly blister on his back, and, if that does not make him better, then a good bleeding in addition."
"He came near fainting the last time," suggested Ma, doubtfully.
"Bleed—bleed—it is the blood which must be got away from the chest, or the inflammation will make an end of him. I will go and see him to-morrow morning—and for Thea's throat, camphor oil and a piece of woollen cloth, and to bed to sweat—and a good spoonful of castor-oil to-night—you can also rub the old beggar woman about the body with camphor, if she complains too much. I will give you some more."
After supper the old friend of the house sat with his pipe and his glass of punch at one end of the sofa, and the captain at the other. The red tint of the doctor's nose and cheeks was not exclusively to be attributed to the passage from the cold to the snug warmth of the room. He had the reputation of rather frequently consoling his bachelorhood with ardent spirits.
They had talked themselves tired about horses and last year's reminiscences of the camp, and had now come to more domestic affairs.
"The news, you see, is blown here both from the city and the West; old Aunt Alette wrote before Christmas that the governor's wife had found out she must drive with both snaffle and curb."
"I thought so," said the doctor, chewing his mouthpiece. "The first thing of importance in managing is to study the nature of the beast; and Inger-Johanna's is to rear; she must be treated gently."
"And that sister-in-law never believed that so much inborn stuff could grow up in the wild mountain region."