“How it does suffer—poor little angel,” ses Miss Carline; “what kin ail the child?”
“I wish the docter would cum,” ses all of ’em.
Sich thoughts as I had in that ower, I never want to have agin, as long as I live. A coffin, with a little baby in its shroud, was all the time before my eyes, and a whole funeral procession was passin’ through my hed. The sermon was ringin’ in my ears, and I could almost hear the rumblin’ of the fust shovelful of yeath on the grave boards of my little boy, as I walked round and round the room, stoppin’ now and then to take a look at the pore little thing, and to speak a word of incouragement to Mary. It was a dredful feelin’ Mr. Thompson, and I do b’lieve I’ve felt ten years older ever sense.
Bimeby we heard the hosses feet—all of us drawed a long breth, and every face brightened up at the sound. In a minit more the docter laid his saddle-bags on the table.
“Good evenin’, ladies,” ses he, jest as pleasin’ and perlite as if nothing wasn’t the matter. “Good evenin’, Majer; how are you this—”
“The baby! the baby!” ses all of ’em. “Docter, can’t you cure the baby?”
“Yes, docter,” ses Mary, “our only hope is in you, docter.”
“And Providence, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins.
It seemed like the docter never would git all his grate-coats, and gloves, and hankerchers off, though the wimmin was hurryin’ him and helpin’ him all they could. Bimeby he drawed a cheer up to whar Mary was sittin’ to look at the baby.
“What’s the matter with yer child, Mrs. Jones?” ses he, pullin’ away its gown and feelin’ its pulse.