"I do," replied he. "I wish I had seen her six months ago."
"Why, doctor? Do you date her illness so far back as that?"
"Yes, and much farther. She has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment."
"Dr. Jeremy," said Gertrude, "you do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die and leave me, and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again, too? Oh, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!"
"Do not be alarmed, Gertrude," said the doctor. "I did not mean to frighten you;—she may live some time yet. I can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutely unsafe for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours—to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. Has not Mrs. Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? She tells me she has no one."
"Yes, indeed," answered Gerty; "her son supplies her wants most generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend."
"Then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist you at once; for, if you do not, I shall."
"I intend to do it," said Gertrude. "I have seen the necessity for some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers, that I hated to propose it."
"Nonsense," said the doctor; "that's only imagination in her; she would soon get used to being waited upon."
Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy to go the next day and see her. "It will be a visit of charity," said she, "for she is probably penniless; and, though staying with your old patients, the Millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them. That never makes any difference with you, however, I know very well."