“Better in one sense of the word, in so far as that he is now conscious; worse in another. He is sinking fast.”
A tremor shook Helen from head to foot. She turned away to hide it. I spoke.
“Do you mean—dying?”
“I fear so.”
“Are his friends with him?”
“Not any of them. His father was sent to yesterday, but he has not yet come. We did not write before, not having anticipated danger.”
“Why don’t they have Henry Carden to him?” cried Helen in passionate agitation as the doctor walked away. “He could have cured him.”
“No, no, Helen; don’t think that. Other men are just as clever as Henry Carden. They have only one treatment for fever.”
A servant-girl answered the door, and asked us into the parlour. She took us for the relations from the north. Mr. Leafchild was lying in a room near—a comfortable bed-chamber. Three doctors were attending him, she said; but just now the nurse was alone with him. Would we like to go in? she added: we had been expected all day.
“Come with me, Johnny,” whispered Helen.