“This child is in pain, Martin!”
He stepped quickly to where she sat, forgotten all this time, and bravely trying to conceal her suffering.
“My dear Nellie.” Dr. Barnhelm went to her remorsefully. “Is it so bad?”
“It is bad enough, sir.” The child’s lip trembled as his kind tone did what the pain could not do, and tears came to her eyes, and she began to sob.
“Them dispensary doctors have made it worse,” said the mother bitterly. “They say it’s no use at all. They—they say her arm’s got to go.”
“When did they tell you this?”
“This afternoon, sir; that’s why I had to come to you. I can’t stand it, Doctor. I’ve stood a lot, but I can’t, can’t let ’em do that to her. She’s all that’s left, and it seems like some one must be able to help her.”
“Paul, will you look at this child? You say that you have worked on these cases. Can’t you and I together help this little girl?”
“Yes, Martin,” Dr. Crossett exclaimed with resolution. “Yes! Come! I will examine her!”
“Let her wait until after dinner,” interrupted Lola impatiently. They all looked at her astounded, the agony in the mother’s voice had moved them deeply. Dr. Crossett’s kind eyes were full of tears. Dr. Barnhelm was more surprised at her tone than indignant at her heartlessness, but he responded rather sharply: