'Oh! yes; I kin manage that. What doctor will you have?'
I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an acquaintance—a skillful and experienced physician, who lived not far off—and gave it to her.
'And can't you make her a cup of tea, and a little chicken-broth? She has had nothing all day.'
'Nothing all day! I'm sure I didn't know it! I'm poor, sir—you don't know how poor—but she shan't starve in my house.'
'I suppose she didn't like to speak of it; but get her something as soon as you can.'
'I will, sir; I'll fix her some tea and broth right off.'
'Well, do, as quick as possible. I'll pay you for your trouble.'
'I don't want any pay, sir,' she replied, as she turned and darted from the doorway as nimbly as if she had not been fat and forty.
She soon returned with the tea, and I gave it to the sick girl, a spoonful at a time, she being too weak to sit up. It was the first she had tasted for weeks, and it greatly revived her.
After a time, the doctor came. He felt her pulse, asked, her a few questions in a low voice, and then wrote some simple directions. When he had done that, he turned to me and said: 'Step outside for a moment; I want to speak with you.'