THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
A MONTH had elapsed since Peggy's accident, and the little girl, though
about again, had not recovered her usual health and spirits. Her mother
watched her with loving solicitude, noting how shattered her nerves
seemed to be, for she started at any sudden sound and dreaded being
left alone. The doctor pronounced her to be suffering from the effects
of the shock to her nervous system, prescribed a complete change of
air, and said time would work a cure.
"How can we send her away for a change?" Mrs. Pringle asked her husband
despairingly. "It is impossible."
"I wish you could take her to the seaside for a few weeks, Margaret,"
Mr. Pringle responded, looking much troubled. "But I really do not see
how it can be managed—where the money is to come from, I mean."
"Never mind, father," Peggy said quickly, "I am sure I shall be well
soon. I am a lot better, really."
"Do you feel so, darling?" he questioned, as he drew her towards him,
and anxiously scrutinised her face.
Then, as she assured him she did, he kissed her gently, an expression
of deep pain and regret on his own countenance.
It grieved Mr. Pringle that he could not afford his little daughter
the change of air which the doctor had prescribed, and he went off to
give a music lesson with a very heavy heart. When he returned, an hour
later, upon opening the front door the sound of a man's hearty laugh
fell upon his ears, and almost immediately Peggy, with a flush of
excitement on her cheeks, came out of the sitting-room, her sensitive
ears having warned her of his arrival, and whispered:
"Oh, father, we've a visitor! Guess who it is. But, no, you never will,
so I may as well tell you. It's Mr. Tiddy. You remember who he is,
don't you? The Cornish gentleman who married Miss Bates."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Pringle, suddenly enlightened. Miss Bates had
been a school friend of his wife's. The two had always corresponded
regularly, though they had not met of late. Miss Bates had earned her
living as a governess until five years previously, when she had married
a well-to-do farmer in Cornwall.
"He is a very nice man, father," Peggy continued, "and he's brought us
a hamper full of all sorts of good things to eat—cream, and butter, and
eggs, and a big cake, which his wife made herself, with a sugary top,
and a couple of chickens! Do come and see him at once."
Accordingly Mr. Pringle allowed his little daughter to lead him into
the sitting-room, where the visitor was being entertained by Mrs.
Pringle and Billy, and after a few minutes' conversation with him, he
mentally agreed with Peggy that this new acquaintance was a very nice
man.
Ebenezer Tiddy was a thorough countryman in appearance, being clad
in a tweed suit, and boots which had evidently been made to keep out
inches deep of mud. He was tall and vigorous, with a ruddy, kindly
countenance, and steady grey eyes which looked one straight in the
face. He had entered the house a complete stranger half an hour before,
but already the children were at their ease with him, and Mrs. Pringle
was looking decidedly more cheerful than when her husband had left her
after their conversation about the doctor's prescription. Mr. Pringle
felt glad Mr. Tiddy had come, since his presence had evidently proved
exhilarating.
"I arrived in town last night," the visitor explained, "and the first
thing this morning I said to myself, 'I'd better execute my wife's
business before I attend to my own.' And now you're here, Mr. Pringle,
I'll speak of the real object of my visit. Said my wife to me one day
last week, 'Ebenezer, how I should like to have little Peggy Pringle
to stay with us for a while! Her mother has written to me that she met
with an accident and doesn't seem to pick up after it as she ought. I
believe a change of air would be the best medicine for her now.'"
Here Mr. Tiddy paused, and looked at Peggy, who, sensitive like all
blind people, was fully conscious of his gaze.
"Oh, Mr. Tiddy!" she exclaimed. "And—what did you say?"
"That she'd better write and invite you to visit us at once, my dear,
believing, as I do, that Cornish breezes and Cornish living would
make you strong in no time. 'But she can't travel alone,' said my
wife, who is quicker of thought than I am, 'and how are we to get her
here, Ebenezer?' 'That can be easily managed,' I replied; 'when I go
to London next week to interview the florist who is going to buy our
flowers this spring, I'll ask her parents to trust her to me.' And
if they will," concluded Mr. Tiddy, looking smilingly first at Mrs.
Pringle, then at her husband, "I am sure I shall be very pleased and
proud, and my wife and myself will do our best to make her visit a
happy one. The little maid won't have any children for playmates, but
I don't think she'll be dull, for there's always something or other to
interest folks at a farm, and I need hardly say we'll take good care of
her."
"How kind you are!" Mrs. Pringle exclaimed, her face alight with
pleasure, "Peggy does indeed need a change very badly, and we have been
bemoaning the fact that we could not give her one. I am sure she would
be quite happy with you and your wife."
"I remember Miss Bates," said Peggy. "She stayed with us once when I
was a little girl."
"And what are you now, pray?" asked Mr. Tiddy, highly amused. "A big
girl, eh?"
"I am nine years old," she answered, in a dignified tone. "But I am not
very tall for my age."
"Cornish air will make you grow. Will you make up your mind, then, to
travel westwards with me? Would your brother care to come too?"
"Billy goes to school, and it is the middle of the term," Mrs. Pringle
explained; "being Saturday, it is the weekly holiday: that is why you
find him at home now. You are very kind to give him an invitation, but
he knows he must not neglect his work."
"He must pay us a visit in his summer holidays, then," said Mr. Tiddy,
sympathising with the disappointment he read in the little boy's face.
"I shall not forget. And now, Mrs. Pringle, do you think you can part
with your little maid on Tuesday? I hope to return to Cornwall as soon
as that. I only require one clear day in town to transact my business."
"Peggy can be ready by Tuesday," Mrs. Pringle answered, after a few
moments' reflection, whilst Peggy herself felt quite bewildered by the
suddenness with which everything was being arranged.
"Come and spend to-morrow with us," suggested Mr. Pringle hospitably,
"that is, if you have made no previous engagement."
"I have not. Thank you, I shall be delighted to come," answered Mr.
Tiddy, his countenance beaming with pleasure. "I have heard so much of
you all from my wife that I can't fancy you were strangers to me till
this last hour."
When at length he took his departure, which was after a little further
conversation, he seemed quite an old friend, and the children were
pleased and excited at the prospect of his visit on the morrow.
"It is as though a load has been lifted off my shoulders," Mr. Pringle
confessed, as he returned to the sitting-room after having said
good-bye to Mr. Tiddy at the front door. He sat down in an arm-chair
as he spoke, and his little daughter took a stool at his feet and
rested her golden head against his knee. "It seems so marvellous this
invitation should have come for Peggy just at this very time," he
proceeded earnestly, "when it seemed utterly impossible to carry out
the doctor's prescription. Surely God must have prompted Mr. Tiddy to
come to us to-day."
"Yes, and there's no one I would so gladly entrust Peggy to as my old
friend," Mrs. Pringle answered contentedly. "You're pleased you're
going, are you not, Peggy?" she questioned, noticing a faint shadow on
her little daughter's face.
"Y-e-s," was the response, given a trifle doubtfully. The thought of
a visit to Cornwall had filled Peggy with a transport of delight at
first; but now, she had had time to reflect that she would have no
mother and father and Billy with her, and she had never been parted
from them before. "I shall miss you all so much," she murmured with
quivering lips, "and Cornwall is so far away."
"We shall miss you, little Sunbeam," her father assured her as he
softly stroked her curly hair, "but we are glad you are going, because
we want you to get well and strong. I believe you will have a most
enjoyable time, and, of one thing I am quite certain, that both Mr. and
Mrs. Tiddy will be kindness itself. I only hope they won't spoil you
and want to keep you altogether."
"I shouldn't stay, if they did," Peggy returned, half indignant at the
suggestion. "And—and I'm beginning to wish I wasn't going at all."
She lay awake a long while that night, crying at the thought of the
coming separation from her family, but she did not admit it the next
morning.
Mr. Tiddy spent Sunday with his new friends as had been arranged, and
in the evening he accompanied them to St. John's. After the service, he
waited with Mrs. Pringle and the children to hear the voluntary. It was
"The Heavens are telling," which Mr. Pringle played at his visitor's
request.
"Did you like it, Mr. Tiddy?" Peggy whispered at the conclusion of the
piece as they passed out of the church.
"Yes, I liked it," he answered earnestly. "Your father plays the organ
beautifully. 'The Heavens are telling the glory of God!' So they do,
don't they?" They were in the street by now, Peggy's hand in the firm
clasp of her new friend. "I can't tell how folks can prefer to live in
town," he proceeded. "Give me the country and plenty of fresh air. Ah,
my dear, I'll show you some rare sights in Cornwall—"
"You forget," interposed Peggy, "I cannot see."
"Poor dear!" he said softly. "How thoughtless of me to forget!"
"Does it seem to you very dreadful to be blind?" she asked, catching
the tone of tender sympathy in his deep voice.
Then, as he hesitated what answer to make, she continued:
"You know, I shall never see as long as I live, but I think I shall get
on very well. Mother says I am very useful in the house. I am learning
to do lots of things—to play the piano and to knit, and father says, if
he had more money—Oh, here are the others!" And she suddenly broke off.
That was the first occasion on which Peggy had been to church since her
accident. Her mother had been doubtful about taking her to-night, and
had wanted to leave her at home with Sarah for her companion. But the
little girl had begged to be allowed to go, and had gained her own way,
and the service had had a beneficial effect upon her, having soothed
her nerves instead of having excited them. She slept well that night,
and the next day was spent in making preparations for her visit, and
passed so busily that when bedtime came again, she was too weary to lie
awake thinking of the parting from all those who made up her little
world, which was so near at hand.
She was called early on the following morning, and after breakfast—of
which she partook but little—and a somewhat tearful good-bye to Billy
and Sarah, she drove off in a cab with her parents to Paddington
railway station, where she was consigned to the care of Mr. Tiddy, who
had already selected a comfortable carriage and procured a foot-warmer
for his little charge.
"Good-bye, Peggy, darling," whispered her mother, as the guard bustled
by requesting people to take their places. "God bless and protect you,
dear."
"Good-bye, little Sunbeam," said her father cheerily, as he lifted her
into the carriage and wrapped her up in a rug. "We shall expect you to
come back well and strong."
"Yes," murmured Peggy, bravely smiling. "Good-bye—oh, good-bye!"