Part 9 (1/2)

”It's what I have been expectin' ye to do all along, but I didn't care to suggest it to ye before, as yer professional pride might not welcome my interference. It's her poor, thin face an' her smile that kapes yer mind from the rale doctorin'. Ye just git a smart man from the city, an' it'll do ye both a power o' good,” she said.

When he was gone Nancy went to the sick-chamber.

”Are ye able to stand good news?” she inquired.

Miss Sophia turned her face towards her, and smiled encouragingly.

”Surely, if it is really bright and hopeful,” she replied, weakly.

”Ye may suppose I'm takin' liberties wi' yer privit concerns, but ye will learn to fergive me whin ye are well an' the spring is here again wi' its quiet suns.h.i.+ne, its flowers an' the gra.s.s growin' by the roadside wi' patterns worked in dandelions like a foine carpet.”

”I love the spring!” Miss Piper exclaimed, with animation.

It had seemed a wonderful thing to the doctor, the power to rouse the suffering woman contained in the homely phrases of Nancy McVeigh.

”As if that was all to love,” Nancy impatiently returned. ”Did it ever come right home to yer heart that ye loved a man an' ye didn't recognize the feelin' fer a long time afterwards. Fer instance, one who is makin' piles o' money out o' the ills o' others?” she added, pausing in her dusting to gaze shrewdly at her friend.

”It's all a riddle to me,” Miss Sophia answered, although her words betrayed a rising interest.

”Aye, a foine riddle, to be sure, an' one that has its answer in the face of Doctor Dodona.”

Sophia Piper's pallid face suddenly changed color, and she frowned irritably. Nancy sat down on the foot of the bed and took the sick woman's hand in her own long, hardened fingers.

”Ye must get well soon, dearie; the doctor's fair beside himself thinkin' he might lose ye, an' he can scarce compose himself long enough to mix his own medicines. He's a lonely man; can't ye see it, child?”

”Do you think so?” Miss Sophia whispered, wonderingly.

”It's not a matter o' thinkin', it's the rale truth, so it is. What is that rhyme I hear the young ones say, 'Somethin' borrowed, somethin'

blue, somethin' old and somethin' new'? May I be somethin' old at yer weddin'?” Nancy asked, tenderly.

Miss Sophia drew the old woman's hand to her cheek and kissed it affectionately.

'Twas after the above conversation that Sophia Piper began to evince a determined desire to recover her health.

”Will the doctor be here this afternoon?” she asked.

”Ye couldn't kape him away. He's bringin' a friend wi' him, too,”

Nancy vouchsafed.

”Then you'll please tidy my hair, and have the curtains drawn back from the windows so that the sun can s.h.i.+ne in the room,” she ordered, sweetly.

”An' I'll put some fresh flowers on yer table,” Nancy agreed.

The specialist came in the afternoon. He was a portly man, with iron-grey hair, clean-shaven face and a habit of emphasizing his remarks by beating time to them with his spectacles. He examined the patient thoroughly, whilst Dr. Dodona stood by deferentially, though impatiently, awaiting his opinion. Then they adjourned to another apartment, and the great man carefully diagnosed the case to his _confrere_. ”She has been very ill,” he admitted, summing up the loose ends of his notations, ”but I see no necessity for a change in your remedies.

”Do you not see a recent improvement?” he asked, shortly.

Dr. Dodona shrugged his shoulders. ”Since last night, yes.”