CHAPTER III

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IT was a terribly snowy Sunday night. It was a night when you sank down to your ankles in snow, and as for umbrellas, they were like moving snow huts.

Willy and his father were sitting before the fire in the doctor's study. It was not often that the doctor had an evening to himself, but this evening he had arranged to stay indoors, and he and his little boy were having a cosy time together.

If you had asked Willy what his idea of happiness was, he would have answered, an evening at home, all alone with his father.

To-night he was as happy as he could be. The doctor was smoking a pipe, and telling him droll stories, and he was roasting chestnuts on the hob. The chestnuts burst with a loud crack; the flames leapt up as if they too were laughing at the doctor's stories. Willy was, perhaps unconsciously, enjoying himself all the more because of the snow and the fog outside. The gloom and discomfort brought out clearly the sense of what a delightfully cosy time he was having.

All at once there came a ring at the front door—a sharp, insistent, impatient ring. Before the tinkling of the bell was over there came another pull, which brought out a peal which said as plainly as words could say, "Open at once; I cannot wait!"

"Oh!" groaned the doctor. "Is it a patient? It sounds like a call."

"But you won't go, father," cried Willy, springing to his feet. "You 'promised' to stay at home to-night. You 'promised.'"

"I won't go if I can help it, my boy, that's certain," said the doctor.

There was a parley at the front door; a high-pitched voice, speaking very fast; the butler's answering in low, protesting tones. There followed something like a scuffle; rapid steps sounded in the hall; the door of the dining-room was opened, then, the flying steps, resumed their march, and came to the study door. A girl's figure stood on the threshold. Her shabby clothes were covered with snow; under the brim of her battered hat her eyes shone wildly. In the disgrace of her draggle-tail garments, and in her apparent sorrow, Willy yet at a glance recognized Pea Blossom.

Above her hat appeared the apologetic face of the butler.

Janie Sprig's glance sought the doctor; recognizing him, she advanced quickly, and took him by the hand. "Come," she said quickly, "put on your hat, and come at once."

"What for, my child?" he answered, eyeing the wild little figure.

"Baby's ill; they say she's dying; come at once—this minute."

The child's burning eyes, her labouring bosom, her trembling little hands, spoke of her despair and of her need; her appearance appealed to the doctor's pity; her trust in him commanded his service.

"But, my child, you have a doctor already; I cannot come," he answered gently.

"You 'must' come. She's a dying, they say; she's a dying," Janie repeated wildly, "and you can prevent it; you are clever; you have got a big house; I know you are clever. You must come; put on your hat; come, oh come at once with me."

"Father can't come," cried Willy.

"He shall come!" cried Jinny, tugging at the doctor's hand. "He shall come. If he don't come—" a sob rent the little breast—"I'll ask God to punish him. Oh come! come!" she cried, her wild anger dropping, and a sudden weakness overcoming her, she fell prone forward on the table and sobbed.

The doctor still hesitated, and Willy watched in silence this outburst of frantic grief.

"Listen," said the doctor, lifting the child gently. "You have another doctor. Your little sister is his patient. He is clever also. He would be angry if I came."

"I told him I was going to fetch you; I told him not to come again. Uncle Sam told him also not to come again. He is a fool," replied Janie, with a flicker of the old energy. "I know he is a fool. He does not know how to cure, or baby would not die. Oh, come! come!" she went on, again clutching at the doctor's hand. "I won't know what to do if you don't come! I won't know what to do."

She left off pulling the still impassive hand. Again the weakness overcame her, and for a moment she stood still, seeming to contemplate her life emptied of this absorbing love. "What shall I do if baby dies? I shall wake in the morning and not hear her cry. I know I'll go on preparing her food when she's dead."

"My poor child! I will go with you and see what I can do for the baby," said the doctor, rising.

"Yes, go, father!" said Willy, with a choke in his voice.

As the doctor was getting ready, Pea Blossom walked up and down the room, breathing heavily. She did not seem to know that Willy was there looking at her.

As he watched the little restless figure, a world of pity filled his boyish heart.

He saw, from the hall door, the eager child pulling his father along, then the two vanished together into the snowy night.

He sat down in the doctor's arm-chair, it was not time to go to bed yet. After a while his eyelids grew heavy. On the wall opposite he seemed to see a procession of little figures, passing and re-passing. Now they danced down with golden, floating hair, a star sparkling on their foreheads; now they wandered past, bowed and broken with sobs. Sometimes they mingled together—they were like each other, and yet so strangely unlike. In and out, in and out came the dancing and the weeping figures—now joining hands, now melting into each other.

Suddenly Willy started up; his father was bending over him.

"How is the baby?" he cried.

"Better. It was a bad attack of croup."

"I knew you would cure her, father," said Willy, confidently.

"She is not safe yet; she is not out of danger. If the baby is spared, next to God, she will owe her life to the care of her little sister-mother."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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