The doctor from Englewood came very soon, and I went up to see the sick

girl with him. Halsey had gone to supervise the fitting of the car

with blankets and pillows, and Gertrude was opening and airing Louise's

own rooms at the house. Her private sitting-room, bedroom and

dressing-room were as they had been when we came. They occupied the

end of the east wing, beyond the circular staircase, and we had not

even opened them.

The girl herself was too ill to notice what was being done. When, with

the help of the doctor, who was a fatherly man with a family of girls

at home, we got her to the house and up the stairs into bed, she

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dropped into a feverish sleep, which lasted until morning. Doctor

Stewart--that was the Englewood doctor--stayed almost all night, giving

the medicine himself, and watching her closely. Afterward he told me

that she had had a narrow escape from pneumonia, and that the cerebral

symptoms had been rather alarming. I said I was glad it wasn't an

"itis" of some kind, anyhow, and he smiled solemnly.

He left after breakfast, saying that he thought the worst of the danger

was over, and that she must be kept very quiet.

"The shock of two deaths, I suppose, has done this," he remarked,

picking up his case. "It has been very deplorable."

I hastened to set him right.

"She does not know of either, Doctor," I said. "Please do not mention

them to her."

He looked as surprised as a medical man ever does.

"I do not know the family," he said, preparing to get into his top

buggy. "Young Walker, down in Casanova, has been attending them. I

understand he is going to marry this young lady."

"You have been misinformed," I said stiffly. "Miss Armstrong is going

to marry my nephew."

The doctor smiled as he picked up the reins.

"Young ladies are changeable these days," he said. "We thought the

wedding was to occur soon. Well, I will stop in this afternoon to see

how my patient is getting along."

He drove away then, and I stood looking after him. He was a doctor of

the old school, of the class of family practitioner that is fast dying

out; a loyal and honorable gentleman who was at once physician and

confidential adviser to his patients. When I was a girl we called in

the doctor alike when we had measles, or when mother's sister died in

the far West. He cut out redundant tonsils and brought the babies with

the same air of inspiring self-confidence. Nowadays it requires a

different specialist for each of these occurrences. When the babies

cried, old Doctor Wainwright gave them peppermint and dropped warm

sweet oil in their ears with sublime faith that if it was not colic it

was earache. When, at the end of a year, father met him driving in his

high side-bar buggy with the white mare ambling along, and asked for a

bill, the doctor used to go home, estimate what his services were worth

for that period, divide it in half--I don't think he kept any

books--and send father a statement, in a cramped hand, on a sheet of

ruled white paper. He was an honored guest at all the weddings,

christenings, and funerals--yes, funerals--for every one knew he had

done his best, and there was no gainsaying the ways of Providence.




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