'It is for this little creature, for my sick son, sir;' and she bent to kiss the little slumberer's forehead. 'I don't know what is the matter, but he falls off every day, and I don't know what to give him. Cure him for me, sir.'
The doctor leant over the little invalid, with its pretty, delicate, pallid face, purple eyelids, hardly perceptible breathing, and lips slightly apart; he touched its forehead and hands, then looked at the mother.
'You give it milk?' he asked shortly.
'Yes, sir,' said she, with a slight smile of motherly content.
'How many months old is he?'
'Eighteen months.'
'And you still suckle him? You are all the same, you Naples women. Wean him at once.'
'Oh, sir!' she exclaimed, quite alarmed.
'Wean him,' he repeated.
'What am I to give him?' she said, almost sobbing. 'I often want bread for myself and the other two, but never milk. Must this poor little soul die of hunger too?'