CHAPTER XXII.
THE LITTLE SICK CHILD.
HE winter is rapidly passing, and so far without monotony, though what it will bring to us before spring remains to be seen. Little Jennie has been suffering more and more with her leg of late, and her papa sent for the doctor at White Mountain, who came today by dog-team. The child's mother has had a spring cot made for her, and she was put to bed by the doctor, who says the knee trouble is a very serious one, and she must have good nursing, attention being also paid to her diet. The Eskimos are all exceedingly fond of seal and reindeer meat, and Jennie's Auntie Apuk or grandmother will often bring choice tidbits to the child at bedtime, or between meals, when she ought not to eat anything, much less such hearty food. When the little child sees the good things, she, of course, wants them, and having been humored in every whim, she must still be, she thinks, especially when she is ill. A problem then is here presented which I may help to solve for them. Jennie and I are growing very fond of each other, and she will do some things for me which she will not do for others who have obeyed her wishes so long. I begin by round-about coaxing and reasoning, and get some other idea into her mind, until the plate of seal meat is partially forgotten, and does not seem so attractive at nine in the evening as when presented with loving smiles by her old grandmother, who does sometimes resent the alternative, but is still exceedingly solicitous that the little girl should recover. As grandmother understands English imperfectly, Mollie is obliged to reiterate the doctor's orders in Eskimo, making them as imperative as possible, and the poor old Eskimo woman goes home with the promise that Jennie shall have some of the dainties at meal-time on the morrow.
In appearance grandmother is still somewhat rugged, being a large woman, with an intelligent face, which expresses very forcibly her inner feelings, and being, probably, somewhere between sixty and seventy years of age. Her husband, who has been dead only a year or two, was much beloved by her, and no reference to him is ever made in her presence, without a flow of tears from her eyes. Her love of home and kindred seems very strong, and her devotion to little Jennie amounts almost to idolatry, so the solicitude expressed by the good woman is only a part of what she really feels, but which is shown in hundreds of ways. When the doctor settled the little girl in her bed she adjusted a heavy weight to the foot on the limb which has given her so much trouble, and now the grief of Mollie and her mother is unbounded. Poor old grandmother wipes her eyes continually, leaving the house quickly at times to rush home and mourn alone, as she is so constrained to do, her sorrow for her darling's sufferings being very sincere. Later she comes in after doing her best at courage building, tiptoes her way in to see if her pet is sleeping or awake, and bringing something if possible, with which to amuse or interest the invalid. However great is the grief of the women, that of the child's papa is equally sad to see, and he, poor man, is forced to face the probability of a long and dreary winter, if not a lifetime of suffering for his darling child. One cannot help seeing his misery, though he tries like a Trojan to hide it, and keeps as cheerful as possible to encourage others. He is always an invalid himself.
The main topic of interest to Jennie now is the little stranger who has come to live with her Auntie Apuk, and whom she is so desirous of seeing that she almost forgets her trouble and suffering, asking constantly about its size, color, eyes, hair, hands and feet. She counts the days before she can see it, and puzzles greatly over the fact of its not possessing a name, her big black eyes getting larger and blacker as she wonders where one will be found. Little Charlie is allowed in to see Jennie at times, and wonders greatly to find her always in bed, asking many questions in his childish Eskimo treble, and patting her hand sympathetically while standing at her side.
"Mamma," said he the other day to Mollie in Eskimo, with a pleased smile on his face, and when the two were alone, "the ladie loves me."
"How do you know?" asked Mollie.