"Perfectly weak and helpless. How long have I been sick?"
"Only a few days. You are a great deal better now." She tenderly
smoothed the silky hair that clustered in disorder round the face.
Clara seemed perplexed; she thought for a moment, and said feebly: "Have I been very ill?"
"Well--yes. You have been right sick. Had some fever, but it has
left you."
Clara mused again. Memory came back slowly, and at length she asked: "Did they all die?"
"Did who die?"
"All those downstairs." She shuddered violently.
"Oh, no! Mrs. Hoyt and Willie are almost well. Try to go to sleep
again, Clara."
Several minutes glided by; the eyes closed, and, clasping Beulah's
fingers tightly, she asked again: "Have I had any physician?"
"Yes. I thought it would do no harm to have Dr. Asbury see you,"
answered Beulah carelessly. She saw an expression of disappointment
pass sadly over the girl's countenance; and, thinking it might be as
well to satisfy her at once, she continued, as if speaking on
indifferent topics: "Dr. Hartwell came home since you were taken sick, and called to see
you two or three times."
A faint glow tinged the sallow cheek, and while a tremor crept over
her lips she said almost inaudibly: "When will he come again?"
"Before long, I dare say. Indeed, there is his step now. Dr. Asbury
is with him."
She had not time to say more, for they came in immediately, and,
with a species of pity she noted the smile of pleasure which curved
Clara's mouth as her guardian bent down and spoke to her. While he
took her thin hand and fixed his eyes on her face, Dr. Asbury looked
over his shoulder, and said bluntly: "Hurrah for you! All right again, as I thought you would be! Does
your head ache at all this morning? Feel like eating half a dozen
partridges?"
"She is not deaf," said Dr. Hartwell rather shortly.
"I am not so sure of that; she has been to all my questions lately.
I must see about Carter, below. Beulah, child, you look the worse
for your apprenticeship to our profession."
"So do you, sir," said she, smiling as her eyes wandered over his
grim visage.
"You may well say that, child. I snatched about two hours' sleep
this morning, and when I woke I felt very much like Coleridge's
unlucky sailor: "'I moved, and could not feel my limbs;
I was so light--almost,
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.'"