“But you is cryin’,” said I. “An’ I’m thinkin’ ’tis because you wisht you was in Boston.”
“No, no!” she cried, her lip trembling. “I’m not wishing that. I’ve never wished that! I’m glad your father found me and took me where he wished. Oh, I’m glad of that—glad he found and loved me—glad I gave myself to his dear care! Why, were I in Boston, to-day, I would not have my dear, big David, your father, lad, and I would not have your sister, and I would not have——”
“Me?” I put in, archly.
“Ay,” she said, with infinite tenderness, “you, Davy, dear!”
For many days, thereafter, the doctor-woman possessed our house, and I’ve no doubt she was happy in her new estate—at table, at any rate, for there she was garrulent and active, and astoundingly active, with less of garrulence, on feast days, when my father had pork provided. And she had a way with the maids in the kitchen that kept the young men from the door (which my sister never could manage); and I have since been led to think ’twas because she sought to work her will on Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, undisturbed by the clatter and quick eyes of young folk. For Skipper Tommy, to my increasing alarm and to the panic of the twins, who wished for no second mother, still frequented the kitchen, when the day’s work was done, and was all the while in a mood so downcast, of a manner so furtive, that it made me sad to talk with him. But by day our kitchen was intolerable with smells—intolerable to him and to us all (save to my sister, who is, and ever has been, brave)—while the doctor-woman hung over the stove, working with things the sight of which my stomach would not brook, but which my mother took in ignorance, hoping they would cure her. God knows what medicines were mixed! I would not name the things I saw. And the doctor-woman would not even have us ask what use she made of them: nor have I since sought to know; ’tis best, I think, forgotten.
But my mother got no better.
“Skipper David,” said the doctor-woman, at last, “I’m wantin’ four lump-fish.”
“Four lump-fish!” my father wondered. “Is you?”
“Oh, my!” she answered, tartly. “Is I? Yes, I is. An’ I’ll thank you t’ get un an’ ask no questions. For I’m mindin’ my business, an’ I’ll thank you t’ mind yours. An’ if you thinks you can do the doctorin’——”
“I’m not seekin’ t’ hinder you,” said my father, flushing. “You go on with your work. I’ll pay; but——”