IT was a terribly snowy Sunday night. It was a night when you sank down
to your ankles in snow, and as for umbrellas, they were like moving
snow huts.
Willy and his father were sitting before the fire in the doctor's
study. It was not often that the doctor had an evening to himself, but
this evening he had arranged to stay indoors, and he and his little boy
were having a cosy time together.
If you had asked Willy what his idea of happiness was, he would have
answered, an evening at home, all alone with his father.
To-night he was as happy as he could be. The doctor was smoking a pipe,
and telling him droll stories, and he was roasting chestnuts on the
hob. The chestnuts burst with a loud crack; the flames leapt up as if
they too were laughing at the doctor's stories. Willy was, perhaps
unconsciously, enjoying himself all the more because of the snow and
the fog outside. The gloom and discomfort brought out clearly the sense
of what a delightfully cosy time he was having.
All at once there came a ring at the front door—a sharp, insistent,
impatient ring. Before the tinkling of the bell was over there came
another pull, which brought out a peal which said as plainly as words
could say, "Open at once; I cannot wait!"
"Oh!" groaned the doctor. "Is it a patient? It sounds like a call."
"But you won't go, father," cried Willy, springing to his feet. "You
'promised' to stay at home to-night. You 'promised.'"
"I won't go if I can help it, my boy, that's certain," said the doctor.
There was a parley at the front door; a high-pitched voice, speaking
very fast; the butler's answering in low, protesting tones. There
followed something like a scuffle; rapid steps sounded in the hall; the
door of the dining-room was opened, then, the flying steps, resumed
their march, and came to the study door. A girl's figure stood on
the threshold. Her shabby clothes were covered with snow; under the
brim of her battered hat her eyes shone wildly. In the disgrace of
her draggle-tail garments, and in her apparent sorrow, Willy yet at a
glance recognized Pea Blossom.
Above her hat appeared the apologetic face of the butler.
Janie Sprig's glance sought the doctor; recognizing him, she advanced
quickly, and took him by the hand. "Come," she said quickly, "put on
your hat, and come at once."
"What for, my child?" he answered, eyeing the wild little figure.
"Baby's ill; they say she's dying; come at once—this minute."
The child's burning eyes, her labouring bosom, her trembling little
hands, spoke of her despair and of her need; her appearance appealed to
the doctor's pity; her trust in him commanded his service.
"But, my child, you have a doctor already; I cannot come," he answered
gently.
"You 'must' come. She's a dying, they say; she's a dying," Janie
repeated wildly, "and you can prevent it; you are clever; you have got
a big house; I know you are clever. You must come; put on your hat;
come, oh come at once with me."
"Father can't come," cried Willy.
"He shall come!" cried Jinny, tugging at the doctor's hand. "He shall
come. If he don't come—" a sob rent the little breast—"I'll ask God to
punish him. Oh come! come!" she cried, her wild anger dropping, and a
sudden weakness overcoming her, she fell prone forward on the table and
sobbed.
The doctor still hesitated, and Willy watched in silence this outburst
of frantic grief.
"Listen," said the doctor, lifting the child gently. "You have another
doctor. Your little sister is his patient. He is clever also. He would
be angry if I came."
"I told him I was going to fetch you; I told him not to come again.
Uncle Sam told him also not to come again. He is a fool," replied
Janie, with a flicker of the old energy. "I know he is a fool. He does
not know how to cure, or baby would not die. Oh, come! come!" she went
on, again clutching at the doctor's hand. "I won't know what to do if
you don't come! I won't know what to do."
She left off pulling the still impassive hand. Again the weakness
overcame her, and for a moment she stood still, seeming to contemplate
her life emptied of this absorbing love. "What shall I do if baby dies?
I shall wake in the morning and not hear her cry. I know I'll go on
preparing her food when she's dead."
"My poor child! I will go with you and see what I can do for the baby,"
said the doctor, rising.
"Yes, go, father!" said Willy, with a choke in his voice.
As the doctor was getting ready, Pea Blossom walked up and down the
room, breathing heavily. She did not seem to know that Willy was there
looking at her.
As he watched the little restless figure, a world of pity filled his
boyish heart.
He saw, from the hall door, the eager child pulling his father along,
then the two vanished together into the snowy night.
He sat down in the doctor's arm-chair, it was not time to go to bed
yet. After a while his eyelids grew heavy. On the wall opposite he
seemed to see a procession of little figures, passing and re-passing.
Now they danced down with golden, floating hair, a star sparkling on
their foreheads; now they wandered past, bowed and broken with sobs.
Sometimes they mingled together—they were like each other, and yet
so strangely unlike. In and out, in and out came the dancing and the
weeping figures—now joining hands, now melting into each other.
Suddenly Willy started up; his father was bending over him.
"How is the baby?" he cried.
"Better. It was a bad attack of croup."
"I knew you would cure her, father," said Willy, confidently.
"She is not safe yet; she is not out of danger. If the baby is
spared, next to God, she will owe her life to the care of her little
sister-mother."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]