“So far, all is right,” said I, cheerfully.
The mother looked at me with an anxious face. I arose, and we retired from the room together. Before leaving, I spoke encouragingly to my patient, and promised to see her early in the morning.
“My daughter is very sick, Doctor. What is the disease?” The mother spoke calmly and firmly. “I am not one towards whom any concealments need be practised; and it is meet that I should know the worst, that I may do the best.”
“The disease, madam,” I replied, “has not yet put on all of its distinctive signs. A fever—we call it the fever of incubation—is the forerunner of several very different ailments, and, at the beginning, the most accurate eye may fail to see what is beyond. In the present case, however, I think that typhoid fever is indicated.”
I spoke as evenly as possible, and with as little apparent concern as possible. But I saw the blood go instantly back from the mother's face.
“Typhoid fever!” she ejaculated, in a low voice, clasping her hands together. I learned afterwards that she had cause to dread this exhausting and often fatal disease. “Oh, Doctor! do for her as if she were your own and only child.”
She grasped my arm, like one catching at a fleeting hope.
“As if she were my own and only child!” I repeated her words in promise and assurance, adding—
“The first result of the medicine which I gave is just what I desired. I will leave something more to be taken at intervals of two hours, until midnight. In the morning, I hope to find a very encouraging change.”
“But, Doctor,” she replied, “if this is a case of typhoid fever, no hope of any quick change for the better can be entertained. I am no stranger to the fearful malady.”