On reaching the child, the mother found one foot and ankle completely submerged, so that when the stocking was removed, not only the skin, but some of the flesh came with it.
As soon as it was possible, a physician was summoned, who prescribed for a few days, and then advised her to be sent to the hospital, where she could have constant care. He did not tell the almost distracted mother that her child would, doubtless, have to suffer the loss of a limb, though he anticipated it from the first, and was sure it would be better, both for the mother and child, that she should be removed.
As soon as these particulars about the young stranger were known, they excited universal sympathy. Mary appeared to be a lively, affectionate child. Just now there were marks of suffering on her face; her eyes had a dark circle around them, and her brow was often contracted; but there was an occasional sparkle in her bright orbs, a slight elevation of the eyebrows, which made her almost beautiful.
She was Irish, and had a rich brogue quite peculiar even among the children brought up in America. It was not many days before she had given her own names to the different persons about her. One of the nurses whose name was Cowles, she designated as "Miss Knowles," and never varied from this title. The kind lady who every few days brought her flowers, fruit and playthings, she called "the lady in black." The woman with the dreadful hitch in her face, was "Patty McNiles's bye," because she was always talking about her "bye," boy.
Though Mary was a constant sufferer, she scarcely ever complained. At first she sympathized too keenly with those about her, and often asked Miss Alden, whom she called "Darling," whether it was not time to give such a patient her medicine, whether it would not do Ruth's hands good to spat them. She had seen this done once when the circulation seemed suspended.
Sitting in her lounging chair, her poor burnt limb laid on a pillow before her, her dolly over her shoulder, she seemed to notice everything which passed around her.
One day Ruth told her about Alick, and how sweetly he sung just before he went to heaven. She was silent for some time after this, and the next time she saw the nurse, asked softly,—
"Darling, do you think I shall die as Alick did? If I do, will you let me sing?"
The house-doctor used to come every day, and apply fresh starch bandages to Mary's limb. This caused her the keenest agony, and all her fortitude could not keep her from uttering sharp cries. But she soon regained her cheerfulness, and seemed to comfort herself with the thought that it was over for that day.
One morning, Ruth, whose couch was near Mary's, and who had just been separating a bunch of hot-house flowers to share with her little friend, saw that the surgeon stopped longer than usual, by her lounging chair; that he made some explanations in technical terms to the students around him, then gave a few directions to Miss Alden before he passed on.