I mounted the stairs, now creakier than ever, and entered a room which in our day seemed comparatively well furnished. It was memorable to me because of a serious siege of illness which my sister, Theresa, had undergone there, and because of several nights in which I had tried to sit up and keep watch. Once from this room, at two in the morning, I had issued forth to find our family physician, an old, grey-bearded man, who, once I had knocked him up, came down to his door, lamp in hand, a long white nightgown protecting his stocky figure, his whiskers spreading like a sheaf of wheat, and demanded to know what I meant by disturbing him.
“But, doctor,” I said timorously, “she’s very sick. She has a high fever. She asked me to beg you to come right away.”
“A high fever! Shucks! Wasn’t I just there at four? Here I am, an old man, needing my sleep, and I never get a decent night’s rest. It’s always the way. As though I didn’t know. Suppose she has a little fever. It won’t hurt her.”
“But will you come, doctor?” I pleaded, knowing full well that he would, although he had begun irritably to close the door.
“Yes, I’ll come. Of course I’ll come, though I know it isn’t a bit necessary. You run on back. I’ll be there.”
I hurried away through the dark, a little fearful of the silent streets, and presently he came, fussing and fuming at the inconsiderateness of some people.
I always think of old Dr. Woolley as being one of the nicest, kindest old doctors that ever was.
But now this room, instead of being a happy combination of bed room and study, was a kitchen, dining room and living room combined. There were prints and pots and pans hung on the walls, and no carpet, and a big iron cook stove and a plain deal table and various chairs and boxes, all very humble and old. But the place was clean, I was glad to see, and the warm, August sun was streaming through the west windows, a cheering sight. I missed the sheltering pine boughs outside, and was just thinking “how different” and asking myself “what is time, anyhow” when there came up the stairs a Slavic workingman of small but vigorous build. He had on grey jean trousers and a blue shirt, and carried a bucket and a shovel.
“The gentleman once lived in this house. He’s come back to see it,” explained his wife courteously.
“Well, I suppose it’s changed, eh?” he replied.