'Hawkes. She's upon my dispensary list. Yes,' said the doctor, looking into his little note-book—'Hawkes.'
'And what is her complaint?'
'Rheumatic fever.'
'Not infectious?'
'Not the least—no more, as we say, Miss Ruthyn, than a broken leg,' and he laughed obligingly.
So soon as the doctor had departed, Milly and I agreed to follow to Hawkes' cottage and enquire more particularly how she was. To say truth, I am afraid it was rather for the sake of giving our walk a purpose and a point of termination, than for any very charitable interest we might have felt in the patient.
Over the inequalities of the upland slope, clumped with trees, we reached the gabled cottage, with its neglected little farm-yard. A rheumatic old woman was the only attendant; and, having turned her ear in an attitude of attention, which induced us in gradually exalted keys to enquire how Meg was, she informed us in very loud tones that she had long lost her hearing and was perfectly deaf. And added considerately—
'When the man comes in, 'appen he'll tell ye what ye want.'
Through the door of a small room at the further end of that in which we were, we could see a portion of the narrow apartment of the patient, and hear her moans and the doctor's voice.
'We'll see him, Milly, when he comes out. Let us wait here.'