"Dangerously ill?"
Again he hesitated, and then looking closely at me (I felt my lower lip
trembling) he said:
"I won't say that. She's suffering from marasmus, provoked by overdoses
of the pernicious stuff that is given by ignorant and unscrupulous
people to a restless child to keep it quiet. But her real trouble comes
of maternal weakness, and the only cure for that is good nourishment and
above all fresh air and sunshine."
"Will she get better?"
"If you can take her away, into the country she will, certainly."
"And if . . . if I can't," I asked, the words fluttering up to my lips,
"will she . . . _die_?"
The doctor looked steadfastly at me again (I was biting my lip to keep
it firm), and said:
"She _may_."
When I returned to the kitchen I knew that I was face to face with
another of the great mysteries of a woman's life--Death--the death of my
child, which my very love and tenderness had exposed her to.
Meantime Mrs. Oliver, who was as white as a whitewashed wall, was
excusing herself in a whining voice that had the sound of a spent wave.
She wouldn't have hurt the pore dear precious for worlds, and if it
hadn't been for Ted, who was so tired at night and wanted sleep after
walking in percession. . . .
Partly to get rid of the woman I sent her out (with almost the last of
my money) for some of the things ordered by the doctor. While she was
away, and I was looking down at the little silent face on my lap,
praying for one more glimpse of my Martin's sea-blue eyes, the
bricklayer came lunging into the house.
"Where's Lizer?" he said.