“None, except a sense of oppression and heaviness. When I raise my arm, it seems to fall like lead; if I move about, I am weary, and wish to be at rest.”
“Rest is, by all means, the most desirable condition for you now,” said I. Then addressing her mother, I added—“I think your daughter had better lie down. Let her room be shaded and kept quiet. She needs rest and sleep. Sleep is one of nature's great restorers.”
“Will you make no prescription, Doctor?” the mother asked.
I reflected on the symptoms exhibited, for a few moments, and then said,
“Nothing beyond repose, now. I trust that nature, as the pressure is removed, will work all right again.”
“You will call in again to-day.”
“Yes; towards evening I will see your daughter, when I hope to find her improved in every way.”
I spoke with a cheerfulness of manner that did not altogether express my feelings in the case; for, there were some indications, not yet clear enough for a diagnosis, that awakened slight concern. As I did not wish to go wrong in my first prescription, I deemed it better to wait a few hours, and see how nature would succeed in her efforts to repel the enemy. So I went away, with a promise to call again early in the afternoon.