“’Twas in April she was took. She’ve been lyin’ there ever since. ’Tis near August, now, I’m thinkin’.”
“They was a doctor here two year ago,” said the man. “He come by chance,” he added, “like you.”
“Think they’ll be one comin’ soon?” the woman asked.
I took the little girl’s hand. It was dry and hot. She did not smile—nor was she afraid. Her fingers closed upon the hand she held. She was a blue-eyed, winsome little maid; but pain had driven all the sweet roguery out of her face.
“Does you think she’ll die, zur?” asked the woman, anxiously.
I did not know.
“Sure, zur,” said the man, trying to smile, “’tis wonderful queer, but I sure thought you was a doctor, when I seed you comin’ ashore.”
“But you isn’t?” the woman pursued, still hopefully. “Is you sure you couldn’t do nothin’? Is you noa kind of a doctor, at all? We doan’t—we doan’t—want she t’ die!”
In the silence—so long and deep a silence—melancholy shadows crept in from the desolation without.
“I wisht you was a doctor,” said the man. “I—wisht—you—was!”