Dr. Grant is dying, you
know. I am sure he is dying, but perhaps those things you have brought
will make him well again."
"I hope so," answered that doctor boy, and together we ran up the path to
that poor little hut that holds all the world for me, perhaps a dying
world, like those I have been told are fading away in the heavens.
He wasn't a bit out of breath, though I was panting when we reached the
shack. He cast a quick look about him, and just nodded briskly to Mr.
Barnett, like a man who has no leisure for small talk. He first went up
to the little boy's bed, and looked at the parson, enquiringly.
"He's getting better," said the latter.
At once the new doctor turned away and stood by John's bed. I must say
John now, Auntie dear, just when you and I are talking together. Perhaps
it will only be for a few hours, or a day or two, that he can be John to
me, in my heart and soul, for after that he may be only a memory, a
killing one, as I feel now.
For a moment he stood there, immobile, looking at John, noting that awful
grey color, and the rapid, hard breathing that sometimes comes in little
sobs. And then he felt the pulse, coolly, and counted the respirations,
in so calm a way that I began to feel like shrieking to him to do
something. But all this really took but a very short time. He went to the
little table, on which a lamp was burning, rather dimly, and opened the
package which contained all those vials they had brought from St.
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