The doctor called the next day, and after the usual examination, he left some more medicine, and departed. But his little patient grew no better. And so daily he repeated his visits, and each time remained longer, and looked more anxious; but his skill seemed to be of little avail. At length one morning, as Emily and Harriet were sitting at the bed-side of the sufferer, while their mother was necessarily absent, Mary awoke from a short, troubled sleep, and, with a wild, unnatural look, began to talk very fast and very singularly about a great many different things.
“There’s my old snow man,” she said, pointing to a bed-post on which some light-colored clothing was hanging; “old man, old man, old man, do you know who made you? I know who it was—’twas Clinty. O mother, see that! see that! isn’t it beautiful! Now it’s gone, and I shan’t see it again. Yes I will too. There it goes—buz-z-z-z-z—do n’t you sting me, you naughty bee—I’ll tell my mother if you do. See! see! see! there he comes—that’s Jerry—no it aint—yes it is too—I tell you it is Jerry—don’t you see him? O, how glad I am he’s got away from the bugaboos! Look! look quick! that’s him—there it goes—up there—don’t you see it way up there, going round and round? By-low baby,—by-low baby,” she continued, twisting the bed-clothes into something that seemed to her a doll; and then she repeated a verse of one of her little songs:—
“Dance, little baby, dance up high;
Never mind, baby, mother is by;
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go.”
Thus she continued to talk, her mind flying from one thing to another in a most singular manner. Her sisters spoke to her, but she took no notice of them; and Harriet ran down to her mother, and bursting into tears, cried:—
“O, mother, do come up stairs—Mary’s gone crazy, and is talking about everything!”
The poor little sufferer continued in a delirious state most of the day, though occasionally, for a few moments at a time, reason would seem to resume its sway. The doctor looked more grave than ever, and when Mrs. Preston followed him into the entry, and entreated him to tell her exactly what he thought of the case, he replied:—
“I think she is a very sick child, but as the fever has not reached the turning-point, it is impossible to tell how it will result. I do not despair of saving her, however, for I have seen more than one patient live through as violent an attack as this appears to be.”