“Mitral regurgitation?” he said, softly, when he rose. The words ended with the rising inflection of uncertainty. Again he listened long; and this time he said, “Mitral insufficiency,” with the accent of an assured diagnosis.
“Madam,” he began, in the reassuring tones that had so often allayed anxiety, “there is a probability—” As he slowly turned his head to face the lady, he saw her fall, white and swooning, into the arms of the old negress.
“Po’ lamb! po’ lamb! Has dey done killed Aunt Cindy’s own blessed child? May de Lawd’ stroy wid his wrath dem what stole her away; what break dat angel heart; what left—”
“Lift her feet,” said Doctor James, assisting to support the drooping form. “Where is her room? She must be put to bed.”
“In here, suh.” The woman nodded her kerchiefed head toward a door. “Dat’s Miss Amy’s room.”
They carried her in there, and laid her on the bed. Her pulse was faint, but regular. She passed from the swoon, without recovering consciousness, into a profound slumber.
“She is quite exhausted,” said the physician. “Sleep is a good remedy. When she wakes, give her a toddy—with an egg in it, if she can take it. How did she get that bruise upon her forehead?”
“She done got a lick there, suh. De po’ lamb fell—No, suh”—the old woman’s racial mutability swept her into a sudden flare of indignation—“old Cindy ain’t gwineter lie for dat debble. He done it, suh. May de Lawd wither de hand what—dar now! Cindy promise her sweet lamb she ain’t gwine tell. Miss Amy got hurt, suh, on de head.”
Doctor James stepped to a stand where a handsome lamp burned, and turned the flame low.
“Stay here with your mistress,” he ordered, “and keep quiet so she will sleep. If she wakes, give her the toddy. If she grows any weaker, let me know. There is something strange about it.”