“Ah! is she not? I thought you were very unlike,” said Dr. John, glancing from one to the other.
“She’s Dutch and I’m Irish, sir; but we live in the same house.”
“Fellow-lodgers, eh? That explains it. But about these children, now. How many are there?”
“Four, sir,” answered Tim.
“And you don’t mean to say,” said the Doctor, turning to Berty, “that there is no one who takes care of them but you?”
“Lieb helps me,” answered Berty, faintly, turning her face away from Dr. John’s compassionate gaze. Berty did not much like talking to, or looking at, the Doctor, kind as he was, and pleasant as he looked, for the pocket-book somehow would come between.
“Who is Lieb?” asked Dr. John, turning again to Tim.
“He is her brother, sir; but he’s younger than she, and they’ve no one else. The father died at sea, and the mother wint afther him last spring, sir. It’s very hard upon Berty, sir, feeding so many little mouths, and she’ll not let me help her, though I’ve tried, many a time and oft.”
“Hard enough, indeed,” said Dr. John, exchanging a glance of surprise and pity with the nurse; “but she can’t help herself now, my lad; so you and I will take care of them in spite of her. You are faint and tired, my dear,” he added, turning to Berty; “but all you have to do now is to rest and get well. I would go to sleep directly, if I were you. We’ll look after the children, this young gentleman and I; and I promise you they shall not want for anything. I will see you again to-morrow. Good night, now, and God bless you.”
Berty could only murmur a faint “Thank you,” in answer to all this kindness; for the pocket-book loomed up very big by this time, I can tell you. When the Doctor and Tim were gone, and the nurse, after smoothing the bedclothes and arranging the pillows very comfortably, went off to attend to her other patients, Berty tried to think the matter over and decide what to do; but she was much too faint and tired for such weary work, and soon, in spite of her efforts, obeyed the Doctor’s parting injunction, and fell asleep.