The Opelousas courier., 1897-06-26
he has told all the neighhors that you

knew WlaJ was u TO uuMaulty. Oo
I went with her, after first taking out,
with an Importance that surprised and
half-shamed me, most of the necessary
instruments of a physician.
Across the street to q great court
lying behind a long row of houses, up
five flights, each darker and sleeper
than the last, through an ill-ftting
door into a little chamber with a slop-
ing ceiling and n tiny window, and
there on a poor but neat bed, with
feverish limbs, and wandering, uncon-
scious eyes, lay a child about fourteen
months old. The woman knelt down
by the bed.
"she doesn't know me any more, "
she moaned.
The child coughed hoarsely. That
was Group Of the worst kind. / tore a
leaf from my blank-book and wrote
my first real prescription.
$50 to the nearest apothecary's."
I said.
She looked at me with some embar.
rassment. "Can't I take it to King
street?" she asked.
"No, indeed" I cried. "Why do
you not wish to go to the apothecary
in this street,"
The women redeemed visibly in spite
of the coal dirt. 81 think" she STAN
mered, sat the Eagle Pharmacy, in
King street, they may know me. l
carry coal there, and perhaps the will
Il have no money" A large tear fell
onto the paper in her hand.
sob, these people who can't pay for
doctor or medicine either!" I said.
impatiently, to myself. 1 took out
some money and said aloud: "There,
take that and hurry!"
The woman pressed her lips On the
little ones hand, and then, before I
could stop her, on mine, and fastened
away.
I looked around the room for q seat.
A poor chair, a rough box, an old
table, some cheap kitchen utensils on
the low, cold stove, which. took the
place of a range; in one corner, hang
ing on the wall. O threadbare wooden
dress, and near it a child's gown and
a little hat trimmed with a blue rib
bon; on the narrow shelf near the
tiny window a curled myrtle plant, a
scarlet geranium, and a hymn book
with bright gilt edges; that was all
that the room contained.
I brought up the chair and sat
down near the little sick girl. She
was evidently we'll uourished; her
little limbs were plump and shapely,
the golden hair soft and curly. She
breathed painfully, but she was not
conscious; and her blue eyes stared
straight before her, as if she were
looking into a distant, unknown coun-
try. 1t was cold in the room. I went
to the stove, but found only a few
chips-too few to build a fire. So I
sat down and waited for the woman
and the medicine.
Again and again my glaneo wan
dered about the poverty-stricken
room. A poor, handwriting woman
who carried coal on the street, while
her child lay sick and suffering; and
yet she certainly loved her little one
tenderly. Suddenly a thought shot
through my mind that I should not
be able to save the child; that per-
haps I had not been decided enough
to take on my own responsibility the
extreme and energetic measures which
would have wrested the little sufferer
from death. My heart grew hot as I
hurried to the door and listened for
the mothers footsteps.
There she was at last. To my re-
%proachful look she only answered,
humbly: "There were SO many people
in the store. Folks like me must
stand back"
An hour of torture passed. The
medicine did no good; little Mary
could not swallow it. Neither did it
avail when, with trembling heart, but
q steady hand, I used the knife on the
slender, helpless throat. The little
golden-haired girl died-died before
my eyes Oh the lap of her stricken
mother.
The woman looked up as if startled
when a tear fell on to her hand, for
she had not wept. "You are crying,
Doctor? Oh you must not do that.
You will have to. stand by SO many
sick beds where God sends no relief.
She looked earnestly at the little
body. II loved her SO. l did every.
thing for her that I could, being so
poor. When I came home from my
dirty work I always found her SO
pretty, SO loving. For hours she
would lie on the bed or sit on the
floor and play with almost nothing,
and then che would laugh for joy
when I came home. God has taken
her He loved her better than but
oh. how lonely it will be for mel"
I pressed the poor woman's hand
1 could not speak, but I laid some
money on the table and went out
softly. Once at home, I laid my case
Of instruments away, and sat down
overwhelmed. Icould eat no supper ;
I went to bed and hoped to sleep, but
the picture of a dismal attic room, of
dead child, and a humble, devout
wsspan would not let me rest, any
mdse than the torturing recollection
ofsmy own part in that scene.
Larry the next morning an old col
les friend came to see me Dc he was
passing through the city. He dragged
me through the crowded streets, to the
museums, to all sorts of restaurants, and
complained of my lack of spirits. I
pleaded a headache, and so escaped
going to see a popular play at the
theater. Tired and exhausted, I went