If you had told a thousand lies--"
There was a sound--a warning--the clearing of a throat. The aunts
glanced up, and withered in their clothes--there stood the doctor,
his face a thunder-cloud. Mother and child knew nothing of
his presence; they lay locked together, heart to heart, steeped in
immeasurable content, dead to all things else. The physician
stood many moments glaring and glooming upon the scene before him;
studying it, analyzing it, searching out its genesis; then he put
up his hand and beckoned to the aunts. They came trembling to him,
and stood humbly before him and waited. He bent down and whispered:
"Didn't I tell you this patient must be protected from all excitement?
What the hell have you been doing? Clear out of the place!"
They obeyed. Half an hour later he appeared in the parlor,
serene, cheery, clothed in sunshine, conducting Helen, with his
arm about her waist, petting her, and saying gentle and playful
things to her; and she also was her sunny and happy self again.
"Now, then;" he said, "good-by, dear. Go to your room, and keep
away from your mother, and behave yourself. But wait--put out
your tongue. There, that will do--you're as sound as a nut!"
He patted her cheek and added, "Run along now; I want to talk
to these aunts."
She went from the presence. His face clouded over again at once;
and as he sat down he said:
"You too have been doing a lot of damage--and maybe some good.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76