Part 23 (2/2)

”Three days,” the doctor repeated.

”I'm wonderful sorry,” sighed the skipper, ”but I got t' stand by the Lard.”

And he _was_ dead--within three days, as we afterwards learned: even as the doctor had said.

Once, when the doctor was off in haste to Cuddy Cove to save the life of a mother of seven--the Cuddy Cove men had without a moment's respite pulled twelve miles against a switch of wind from the north and were streaming sweat when they landed--once, when the doctor was thus about his beneficent business, a woman from Bowsprit Head brought her child to be cured, incredulous of the physician's power, but yet desperately seeking, as mothers will. She came timidly--her ailing child on her bosom, where, as it seemed to me, it had lain complaining since she gave it birth.

”I'm thinkin' he'll die,” she told my sister.

My sister cried out against this hopelessness. 'Twas not kind to the dear Lord, said she, thus to despair.

”They says t' Bowsprit Head,” the woman persisted, ”that he'll die in a fit. I'm--I'm--not wantin' him,” she faltered, ”t' die--like that.”

”No, no! He'll not!”

She hushed the child in a mechanical way--being none the less tender and patient the while--as though her arms were long accustomed to the burden, her heart used to the pain.

”There haven't ever been no child,” said she, looking up, after a moment, ”like this--afore--t' Bowsprit Head.”

My sister was silent.

”No,” the woman sighed; ”not like this one.”

”Come, come, ma'm!” I put in, confidently. ”Do you leave un t' the doctor. _He'll_ cure un.”

She looked at me quickly. ”What say?” she said, as though she had not understood.

”I says,” I repeated, ”that the doctor will cure that one.”

”Cure un?” she asked, blankly.

”That he will!”

She smiled--and looked up to the sky, smiling still, while she pressed the infant to her breast. ”They isn't n.o.body,” she whispered, ”not n.o.body, ever said that--afore--about my baby!”

Next morning we sat her on the platform to wait for the doctor, who had now been gone three days. ”He does better in the air,” said she.

”He--he-_needs_ air!” It was melancholy weather--thick fog, with a drizzle of rain: the wind in the east, fretful and cold. All morning long she rocked the child in her arms: now softly singing to him--now vainly seeking to win a smile--now staring vacantly into the mist, dreaming dull dreams, while he lay in her lap.

”He isn't come through the tickle, have he?” she asked, when I came up from the shop at noon.

”He've not been sighted yet.”

”I'm thinkin' he'll be comin' soon.”

”Ay; you'll not have t' wait much longer.”

”I'm not mindin' _that_,” said she, ”for I'm used t' waitin'.”

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