“Bless you, child,” returned the old negress, “she ’sarves ’em all for treatin’ that poor, dear lamb so. I’d ’nihilate her if I’s Miss Mabel.”
“No, no, Milly,” said Aunt Polly, who was present. “You must heap coals of fire on her head.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it—she orto have ’em,” quickly responded Milly, thinking Polly’s method of revenge the very best in the world, provided the coals were “bilin’ hot,” and with this reflection she started upstairs, with a bowl of nice, warm gruel she had been preparing for the invalid.
Several times each day Grandma Nichols visited Mabel’s room, always prescribing some new tea of herbs, whose healing qualities were wonderful, having effected cures in every member of Nancy Scovandyke’s family, that lady herself, as a matter of course, being first included. And Aunt Milly, with the faithfulness characteristic of her race, would seek out each new herb, uniting with it her own simple prayer that it might have the desired effect. But all in vain, for every day Mabel became weaker, while her dark eyes grew larger and brighter, anon lighting up with joy as she heard her husband’s footsteps in the hall, and again filling with tears as she glanced timidly into his face, and thought of the dread reality.
“Maybe I shall die,” was more than once murmured in her sleep, and John Jr., as often as he heard those words, would press her burning hands, and mentally reply, “Poor little Meb.”
And all this time no one thought to call a physician, until Mr. Livingstone himself at last suggested it. At first he had felt no interest whatever in his daughter-in-law, but with him force of habit was everything, and when she no longer came among them, he missed her—missed her languid steps upon the stairs and her childish voice in the parlor. At last it one day occurred to him to visit her. She was sleeping when he entered the room, but he could see there had been a fearful change since last he looked upon her, and without a word concerning his intentions, he walked to the kitchen, ordering one of his servants to start forthwith for the physician, whose residence was a few miles distant.
Mrs. Livingstone was in the front parlor when he returned, in company with Doctor Gordon, and immediately her avaricious spirit asked who would pay the bill, and why was he sent for. Mabel did not need him—she was only babyish and spleeny—and so she told the physician, who, however, did not agree with her. He did not say that Mabel would die, but he thought so, for his experienced eye saw in her infallible signs of the disease which had stricken down both her parents, and to which, from her birth, she had been a prey. Mabel guessed as much from his manner, and when again he visited her, she asked him plainly what he thought.
She was young—a bride—surrounded apparently by everything which could make her happy, and the physician hesitated, answering her evasively, until she said, “Do not fear to tell me truly, for I want to die. Oh, I long to die,” she continued, passionately clasping her thin white hands together.
“That is an unusual wish in one so young,” answered the physician, “but to be plain with you, Mrs. Livingstone, I think consumption too deeply seated to admit of your recovery. You may be better, but never well. Your disease is hereditary, and has been coming on too long.”
“It is well,” was Mabel’s only answer, as she turned wearily upon her side and hid her face in the pillows.