THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS.
ABOUT this time a fever broke out in the neighborhood, and one of the
families first attacked was Mrs. Ship's, where Milly's friends, Jack
and Bob, still lived.
News of this was brought in by one of the servants, when Milly was in
the kitchen one morning.
"Two of the children are very bad indeed," said the girl. "And the
baker says they're so poor now, they can hardly get a living, so what
they'll do with sickness in the house, I don't know."
"Poor things! It's a pity they can't get somebody to help them a bit,"
said the housekeeper. But she has no thought of giving them any help
herself, although she might have done it, had she felt so disposed.
Milly stood at the table, eagerly listening to all that was said.
"Will Bob and Jack have the fever and be ill, do you think?" she asked,
after a minute's pause.
"Very likely, child; there's no telling who will have it and who won't,
and as it's in the house where they live, they'll be very likely to
take it."
"And there 'll be nobody to help them, now their mother is dead," said
Milly, speaking softly to herself.
She did not say any more, but walked slowly and thoughtfully up
stairs and took out a book to spell over her lessons, as she had been
accustomed to do. But somehow the sight of the old worn spelling book
that Bob had bought as a present for her, brought back the old scenes
so vividly to her mind that, at the recurrence of the thought that
these two friends might be ill, with no one to take care of them, she
burst into tears.
She was still crying when Dr. Mansfield came in from the garden. "What
is the matter, Milly? What has happened, my darling?" he asked, lifting
her upon his knee as he sat down.
For a minute or two Milly could only sob. But at length she said, "I
think I shall have to go away from you soon."
"Go away from me?" repeated the doctor, clasping her in his arms as he
spoke. "What do you mean, Milly?"
"I don't know, quite; but Bob told me I must be an angel, and help
everybody, and I think he will want me to go and help him now."
"Help who? Bob, the fisher-boy?"
Milly nodded. "He'll want me soon, I think," she said, wiping the tears
from her eyes and trying to look very brave.
"What for?" asked the doctor. "What can a little girl like you do for
him?"
"I don't know. I'm going to try and do everything; that is, take care
of him while he's ill. That would be helping him, wouldn't it?" she
added.
"Yes, if you could do it. But is he ill?" asked the doctor, smiling.
"Not yet; but he's going to be. He'll have the fever, Mary says."
"O! It's what Mary says, is it?" said the doctor, kissing her. "Well,
then, I don't think you need trouble your little head much about it.
Tell me what you have been learning this morning," he added, by way of
turning her thoughts to another subject.
But Milly was not to be put off so easily. "I can't learn my lesson
this morning," she said. "I must think about Bob and Jack, and how I
can help them."
"But it will be time enough to think about that when they are ill,"
said the doctor, again smiling.
"But Mrs. Ship's two little girls are ill now, and Mary said she wanted
some one to help her. Do you think I could help a little bit?"
"What do you think you could do?" asked the doctor in an amused tone.
He was unusually cheerful this morning, and loved to hear Milly talk.
"I think I could light the fire—I've seen Bob do it a good many
times—and I could go after water. Mother said that I helped her when I
brought the water for her. I learned to wash cups and saucers before I
came here, and I could do that."
"But I'm afraid this wouldn't help these poor people much," said the
doctor, speaking more seriously. "If Mary said they wanted help, she
meant help of a different sort from what a little girl can give."
Milly looked disappointed. "I wish I wasn't a little girl, then," she
said. "Little girls don't seem to be any good in the world, if they
can't help when people are ill."
The doctor drew her closer to him. "Don't say that, my darling. Little
girls do not know how much good they may do in the world."
"What good," asked Milly, curiously, "if they can't help people when
they are ill?"
"What makes you so anxious about this?" asked the doctor.
"I want to help Bob and Jack, and then—then, you know, that would be
like Jesus—who went about helping everybody He could."
"Like Jesus?" repeated the doctor, musingly. "I dare not hope ever to
be like Him; but if I could help these poor people a bit, would it not
please Him? And if I could do that, it would be worth something—worth
living for."
This was said more to himself than to Milly; and as he spoke he put her
off his knee, and turned to a medicine-chest that stood in the room,
and began looking over its contents.
"I think I will go down and see these children myself," he said, as he
placed two or three bottles in his pocket. "Perhaps I may be able to
save the boys from having the fever at all," he added as he left the
room.
Milly ran after him before he reached the street-door. "Let me go with
you," she said. "Do let me go and see Bob. I haven't seen him for a
long time."
But the doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid you would catch this fever,
and be ill too," he said.
But Milly pleaded so hard to be allowed to accompany him part of the
way, that the doctor yielded the point at last. And it was well he did,
or otherwise he might not have gained so ready an admission into the
cottage.
Mrs. Ship was at the window, and saw the two coming across the green
together, Milly holding the doctor's hand, and skipping and laughing as
she trotted at his side.
"Well, to be sure, there must be a change in that Dr. Mansfield, for a
child to be no more afraid of him than that little Milly is," she said
to Bob, who happened to enter the room at that moment to inquire after
the children who were ill.
"I've heard before that the doctor is almost cured of his madness,
somehow," said Bob.
"Well, cured or not, I shouldn't care to see him come into my house if
I hadn't seen him with that child. I wonder where they are going," she
added the next minute, as she saw the doctor stoop and kiss the little
girl. "He's going to leave her to play on the green, I do believe,
while he goes on by himself."
The doctor had quickened his pace now, and was rapidly approaching the
cottage.
"I do believe he's coming here," said Mrs. Ship. "Bob, go and see what
he wants, and tell him we've got the fever, so that he may not come
inside the door. I dare say he's coming to see you about something."
Bob went outside to meet the doctor, but returned in a minute or two.
"He's come to see the children, Mrs. Ship," he said hurriedly, scarce
able to get the words out for astonishment.
Poor Mrs. Ship scarcely knew whether she stood on her head or on her
feet, as the tall form of the doctor appeared in the doorway.
She curtsied and stammered out something about the "poor place."
But the doctor told her, shortly, he had not come to see the place,
but the children, and almost before she was aware of it, Mrs. Ship had
asked him to walk into the adjoining room, where the children were
lying.
Sharp and gruff as his manner had been towards the mother, nothing
could exceed the gentleness with which he now spoke to the children.
They were moaning restlessly in a half delirious state, and did not
recognize him, or they might have taken fright at seeing the "mad
doctor" so near them.
After leaving some general directions for their treatment with the
medicine he had brought in his pocket, he told Mrs. Ship to send one of
the boys to his house for some arrow-root and barley-water, which he
would have prepared for them, and then, before a word of thanks could
be uttered, he was gone.
This was his first errand of mercy, but it was not the last. The day
following, when he called at the cottage, he ventured to ask in a shy
manner, as though he were half ashamed of the kindness he was showing,
whether the fever was spreading in the village, and whether there were
any other families that needed help and medical assistance.
"O, yes, indeed it is, doctor," said Mrs. Ship, sadly; "and what 'll
become of some of the poor things I don't know, for the fishing has
been so bad this year that we don't know how to make ends meet as it
is."
In the selfish, secluded life the doctor had led, he had heard nothing
of this, although living in the midst of the general distress. But it
accounted in some measure for the great prevalence of the fever, and he
determined to do what he could to help the poor people, not only with
medical advice, but what was equally necessary, the means of obtaining
suitable nourishing food.
For several months the doctor had no time to indulge his gloomy
melancholy. His visits, which were at first received shyly and somewhat
suspiciously by the villagers, soon came to be hailed with pleasure,
in spite of the sad countenance he always carried with him; for sad
and unhappy he still was, as could be plainly seen, although the worst
features of his melancholy had been overcome.
The fever passed away at length, and with it the doctor's occupation
to a great extent. But from this time, if any of the villagers were
ill, or in trouble, Dr. Mansfield was the first applied to in the
difficulty, and they always found in him a ready helper and consoler.