“Professional men have much to bear,” she said.
“Chiefly the criticism of ignorant people.”
“And the ingratitude!”
Murchison smiled.
“I have found the good to outweigh the bad,” he said; “but these cases sadden one.”
The hours had passed stormily at Boland’s Farm. There had been a brisk battle between Mrs. Baxter and the nurse, before the latter lady had spent sixty minutes under the farm-house roof, a battle that had originated in the simple brewing of a basin of beef-tea. The nurse and the housewife advocated different methods, and the trivial variation had been sufficient to set the women quarrelling. Dr. Inglis had intervened in the middle of the discussion, only to divert Mrs. Baxter’s anger to himself. She had assured the theorist bluntly that they needed him no further, and had requested him to inform Dr. Murchison that the Baxters, of Boland’s Farm, were not to be insulted by being served by an assistant. Despite the energy of his wife’s tongue, Thomas Baxter’s condition had grown markedly worse. The nurse and the two shrews had watched by him through the night, their pitiable peevishness unmoved by the sick man’s peril.
At seven o’clock Nurse Sprange had favored Mrs. Baxter with her opinion.
“Worse, of course!” the housewife had exclaimed; “what can any Christian creature expect after the way they hacked the poor soul about?”
The nurse had ruffled up in defence of the profession.
“You had better send at once for Dr. Murchison.”