Saint Mary's beacon. [volume] (Leonard Town, Md.) 1867-1983, 1892-11-24
went to the oven and found only
some splinters-of wood.
There were 90 few that / did MT

There were so few that / did no
attempt to build a FIRE. | sat down
and waited for the woman and tn
medicine. Ever and anon m,
glance would wander around th,
miserable room. Here was poor
hard-vorking woman, who carried
charcoal on the street, while hel
child lay in want and sickness, anC
yet she loved her baby tenderly.
Suddenly the thought shot through
me that l could not save the child
| had been called too late. | had
not resolution enough to try any
doubtful energetic effort to save her,
to- snatch her from the arms oi
Death. My heart was heavy.
sprang to the door and listened for
the footsteps of the mother. She
came finally; my reproachful look
met her downcast one. There
were SO many people in the store.
A woman like myself did not dare
to press forward
An hour of tormen. went by.
The medicine avalled nothing. Lit
tie 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
manner; a tear had fallen on her
hand, bdr she had not wept.
You are weeping, Doctor she
said, softly. 'Ah, don't weep, sir,
you will stand before many a sick
bed as you have stood here, where
the Lord will not help
She looked fixedly at the little
corpse. Il have loved her very
dearly. l have done for her what
| could in my poverty. Whenever
| came home from my work l 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 lone
somev
pressed the woman's hand, but
could not speak. l dropped some
money on the table, and silently
went out. At home / laid my in
strument case away, and sat down
disheartened. l could eat no sup
per. / went to bed and tried to get
to sleep. But the picture of the
gloomy attic, of the dead child, of
the submissive and patient woman,
kept me less from sleep than the
tormenting self-reproach with which
| thought over everything that /
had done. My first patient! l
simply groaned, and then the words
of the poor woman came to me
again: Don't weep. Doctor, you
will stand before many a sick bed
as you have stood here, where the
Lord will not help
/ had been summoned too late:
| had not been able to save the
child. You viii stand before many
sick bed as you have stood here. ,
| hid my face in the pillow. 1t was
terrible night; the torturing
thoughts which made me so restless
were very different from the pleas
ant dreams which had encouraged
me in both my waking and my
sleeping hours.
Early on the following day an
old college 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. lie
complained of my taciturnity.
feigned headache and escaped the
necessity OF having to see a sensa-
tional play at the Court Theatre.
Tired and worn ont, / went at last
alone to my room. On my way
there passed the window of a
brightly-lighted fower-shop.
walked in and bought a costly,
white camelia and some sweet-smell-
ing violets. went up the five
flights to the room of the poor
woman. found the door unlocked.
1t was family lighted, and little
coffin stood in the middle of the
room. In it lay the child, dressed
in a white gown. The ribbon on
the hat on the wall had been made
into two little bows, the myrtle
wreath lay on the blond hair, and
the geranium was laid upon hel