“Listen, Mrs. Garvin. If you had come to the church half an hour later, I should have been leaving the city for a place far distant.”
“You were going away? You stayed on my account?”
“I much prefer to stay, if I can be of any use, and I think I can. I am sure I can. What is the matter with the child?”
“I don't know, sir—he just lies there listless and gets thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker. Sometimes he feels sick, but not often. The doctor don't seem to know.”
“What doctor have you?”
“His name is Welling. He's around the corner.”
“Exactly,” said the rector. “This is a case for Dr. Jarvis, who is the best child specialist in the city. He is a friend of mine, and I intend to send for him at once. And the boy must go to a hospital—”
“Oh, I couldn't, sir.”
He had a poignant realization of the agony behind the cry. She breathed quickly through her parted lips, and from the yearning in her tired eyes—as she gazed at the poor little form—he averted his glance.
“Now, Mrs. Garvin, you must be sensible,” he said. “This is no place for a sick child. And it is such a nice little hospital, the one I have in mind, and so many children get well and strong there,” he added, cheerfully.