Mr Jones soon appeared. He had been paid regularly, and when he saw me he was the more ready to come. Eager as I was to get back, I did not like to run ahead of him; and, to do him justice, he exerted himself to walk as fast as his breath would allow him.
He asked me several questions; then I told him that mother had been again out bum-boating.
“Bad—very bad. I told her not to go. A relapse is a serious matter,” he remarked, panting and puffing between his sentences. “However, we must try what can be done.”
Mary met us at the door.
“Mother has been breathing very hard since you went, Peter,” she said, “but she is quite quiet now.”
The doctor’s face looked very serious when he heard this. He hurried into the room.
“I thought so,” I heard him remark to Nancy. “I could have done nothing if you had sent for me hours ago. The woman is dead.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?” cried Nancy, sobbing bitterly.
“The sooner you let any friends the children may have know what has happened the better, and then send for the undertaker,” answered Mr Jones. “The boy is sharp—he’ll run your errands. I can do no more than certify the cause of death.”
He hurried away without bestowing a look at Mary and me, as we stood holding each other’s hands, unable as yet to realise the fact that we were orphans. He had so many poor patients that he could not afford, I suppose, to exercise his compassionate feelings. Even when Nancy afterwards took us in to see mother’s body, I would scarcely believe that she herself had been taken from us.