The little kitchen was very neat; the window was open and the summer morning looking in; nobody was there but themselves; and so there might be many a worse place to take breakfast in. And the meal prepared was dainty, though simple. Mrs. Copley could not eat much, nor Dolly; and yet the form of coming to breakfast and the nicety of the preparation were a comfort; they always are; they seem to say that all things are not confusion, and give a kind of guaranty for the continuance of old ways. Still, Mrs. Copley did not eat much, and soon went back to her watch; and Dolly cleared the table and considered what she could have for dinner. For dinner must be as usual; on that she was determined. But the doctor's coming was the next thing on the programme.
The doctor came and made his visit, and Dolly met him in the hall as he was going away. He was a comfortable-looking man, with the long English whiskers; ruddy and fleshy; one who, Dolly was sure, had no objection, for his own part, to a good glass of wine, or even a good measure of beer, if the wine were not forthcoming.
"Your father, is it?" said the doctor. "Well, take care of him—take care of him."
"How shall we take care of him, sir?"
"Well, I've left medicines upstairs. He won't want much to eat; nor much of anything, for a day or two."
"What is it? Cold?"
"No, my young lady. Fever."
"He got himself wet in the rain, a few days ago. He was shivering last night."
"Very likely. That's fever. Must take its course. He's not shivering now."
"Will he be long ill, sir, probably?"