St. Landry democrat. (Opelousas, La.) 1878-1894, 1892-12-17
T decided to 90 with the woman. After

| pOmpOSlCy WHICH iSLOulsncu anu hdli
shamed even myself.
| Across the street we took our course,
into o great courtyard lying behind a
row of houses. Then she led me up five
flights of stairs, each one darker and
sleeper than the last, and finally through
a badly-ftting door into little room
with slanting ceiling and very little win
dows. On miserable but neatly arranged
bed lay q child of perhaps fourteen
months. Her limbs were fever heated,
and her eyes were wandering and mex
pressive.
The woman bent down to the bedside
"She does not know me! She does not
know mel" she moaned.
The child coughed; it was croupous
| cough of the worst sort. | tore q leaf
from my book, and wrote my first pre-
scription as practicing physician.
"To the nearest apothecary," said
The woman looked at me, embarrassed.
"Can / take it to the one in the KONG
strasse?" she said.
"No, no." l cried, cit requires the
greatest haste; why will you not 20 to the
apothecary in this street2'
The woman Redeemed perceptibly, in
spite of the charcoal dust. Finally she
stammered, 1.-The apothecary in the
Konigstrasse knows me; l carry coal
there, and he will perhaps I have no
| money"
A heavy tear dropped On the paper in
her hand.
"These people, who can pay no physi-
| clan and no druggist" said I, angrily,
but inaudibly. took out some money,
and said aloud, "There, take that, and
60 quickly"
The woman kissed the hand of her
child, and then, before could stop her,
she kissed mine also, and fastened away.
rickety chair, red chest, an old table,
some miserable dishes on poor, cold
oven, which occupied the place of a
hearth, comprised all the furniture.
Hanging on the wall in a corner was q
| threadbare wooden garment, and also a
child's cloak and little hat with rib
bon around it fingers breadth wide; on
a bracket hanging next to the little win
dow was withered myrtle tree, red
geranium, and hymn-book, with dis
gushing yellow edges. That was every
thing the room held.
l sat down beside the little girl. She
was apparently we'll cared for. Her limbs
were round and pretty, her golden hair
was soft and curly. She was unconscious;
her blue eyes stared straight before her,
as if she was looking into the far, I'M
known distance. The room was cold.
I went to the oven and found only some
splinters of wood.
There were so few that | did not at
tempt to build fire. | sat down and
waited for the woman and the medicine.
Ever and anon my glance would wander
around the miserable room. Here was q
poor, Woodworking woman, who carried
charcoal on the street, while her child
lay in want and sickness, and yet she
loved her baby tenderly.
Suddenly the thought shot through me
that | could not save the child. l had
been called too late. ! had not resolu-
ton enough to try any doubtful energetic
effort to save her, to snatch her from the
arms of Death. My heart was heavy. I
sprang to the door and listened for the
footsteps of the mother She came finally
my rcproachful look met her downcast
one. There were so many people inthe
store. A woman like myself did not dare
to press forward"
An hour of torment went by. The
medicine availed nothing Little Marie
could not swallow it. An operation on
the throat was of no use. The child died,
died before my eyes on the bosom of the
mother, bowed down by her grief.
She finally looked up in terrified man
ner; tear had fallen on her hand, but
she had not wept.
You are weeping, doctor," she said,
softly. "Ah, don't weep, sir, you will
stand before many sick bed as you have
stood here, where the Lord will not help"
She looked tixedly at the little corpse.
81 have loved her very dearly. | have
done for her what | could in my poverty.
Whenever | came home from my work |
found her so pretty, so charming, For
hours she would lie in bed or on the floor
and play with almost nothing, and she
laughed for Joy when | came home God
has taken her from me. He loves her
more than l do, but, oh, shall be so
lonesomcw
Ipressed the woman's hand, but could
not speak. | dropped some money on
the table, and silently went out At home
/ laid my instrument case away, and sat
down disheartened. | could cat no sup
per. I went to bed and tried to get to
sleep. But the picture of the gloomy
attic, of the dead child, of the submis-
sive and patient woman, kept me less
from sleep than the tormenting self-re-
R<oach with which thought over every
Aing that l had done. Ny first atient!
! simply groaned, and then the words of
she poor woman came to me again:
sDon't weep, doctor, you will stand be-
fore many sick bed as you have stood
here where the Lord will not help"
I had been summoned too late; / had
not been able to save the child. "You
will stand before many sick bed as you
have stood here laid my face in the
pillow. 1t was terrible night; the tor
turing thoughts which made me so rest
less were very different from the pleasant
dreams which had encouraged me in both
my waking and my sleeping hours.
Early on the following day an old col
lege friend came, who had sought me on
his way through the city. He dragged
me over the crowded streets, into the
Museums, into all sorts of restaurants.
He complained of my taciturnity. I
feigned headache and escaped the ne
cessity of having to see sensational
play at the Court Theatre. Tired and
worn out, l went at last to my own ROOM
On my way there passed the window of
a brightly-lighted flower-shop. walked
IN and bought costly, white camelia and
some understanding violets. Invent up
the five flights to the room of the poor
woman. I found the door unlocked. It