Part 23 (1/2)

Looking back--with the added knowledge that I have--it seems to me that he had no need to ask the question. The flush and gasp told the story well enough, quite well enough: the maid was dying of consumption.

”Me lights is floatin', zur,” she answered.

”Your lights?”

”Ay, zur,” laying a hand on her chest. ”They're floatin' wonderful high.

I been tryin' t' kape un down; but, zur, 'tis no use, at all.”

With raised eyebrows the doctor turned to me. ”What does she mean, Davy,” he inquired, ”by her 'lights'?”

”I'm not well knowin',” said I; ”but if 'tis what _we_ calls 'lights,'

'tis what _you_ calls 'lungs.'”

The doctor turned sadly to the maid.

”I been takin' shot, zur, t' weight un down,” she went on; ”but, zur, 'tis no use, at all. An' Jim b.u.t.t's my man,” she added, hurriedly, in a low voice. ”I'm t' be married to un when he comes up from the Narth.

Does you think----”

She paused--in embarra.s.sment, perhaps: for it may be that it was the great hope of this maid, as it is of all true women of our coast, to live to be the mother of sons.

”Go on,” the doctor quietly said.

”Oh, does you think, zur,” she said, clasping her hands, a sob in her voice, ”that you can cure me--afore the fleet--gets home?”

”Davy,” said the doctor, hoa.r.s.ely, ”go to your sister. I must have a word with this maid--alone.” I went away.

We caught sight of the _Word of the Lord_ beating down from the south in light winds--and guessed her errand--long before that trim little schooner dropped anchor in the basin. The skipper came ash.o.r.e for healing of an angry abscess in the palm of his hand. Could the doctor cure it? To be sure--the doctor could do _that_! The man had suffered sleepless agony for five days; he was glad that the doctor could ease his pain--glad that he was soon again to be at the fis.h.i.+ng. Thank G.o.d, he was to be cured!

”I have only to lance and dress it,” said the doctor. ”You will have relief at once.”

”Not the knife,” the skipper groaned. ”Praise G.o.d, I'll not have the knife!”

It was the doctor's first conflict with the strange doctrines of our coast. I still behold--as I lift my eyes from the page--his astonishment when he was sternly informed that the way of the Lord was not the way of a surgeon with a knife. Nor was the austere old fellow to be moved. The lance, said he, was an invention of the devil himself--its use plainly a defiance of the purposes of the Creator. Thank G.o.d! he had been reared by a Christian father of the old school.

”No, no, doctor!” he declared, his face contorted by pain. ”I'm thankin'

you kindly; but I'm not carin' t' interfere with the decrees o'

Providence.”

”But, man,” cried the doctor, ”I _must_----”

”No!” doggedly. ”I'll not stand in the Lard's way. If 'tis His will for me t' get better, I'll get better, I s'pose. If 'tis His blessed will for me t' die,” he added, reverently, ”I'll have t' die.”

”I give you my word,” said the doctor, impatiently, ”that if that hand is not lanced you'll be dead in three days.”

The man looked off to his schooner.