Dr. Wharton took his hat, but paused again at the bedside.
“I am going around by the Chinese quarter this noon,” he said, “and will do my best to bring some good assistant. Some of those Chinamen make excellent nurses. Have you any objection to trying one?”
“Oh, I don’t care a–pin who comes,” answered the poor, impatient, suffering man; and the next moment the doctor left the room as the nurse glided softly in, and the patient closed his weary eyes.
Philip Fairfax was a man of wealth and education, but his fine fortune had been sadly misused. Moreover, his naturally sound physical constitution had been unwarrantably abused by a hard round of indulgence in dissipation and vice, which had caused him in his early manhood to fall an easy prey to the dangerous malarial fever so prevalent at certain seasons, and which now had assumed a malignant form, rendering recovery almost impossible.
Just previous to the foregoing conversation, a consultation of the ablest physicians of the county had been held in Mr. Fairfax’s elegant library, with what result we have already seen.
“Do you give it up, Ching?”
“Yes: me givee up, but trust God still.”
“We tellee you, it impossible; college chances not for Chinese boys.”
“It not impossible with mine God. All things are possible with Him. Me only givee up for this term,” was the cheerful reply.