“The land, the land, the blessed, blessed land,
     Gawd gave the land to the people.”

But nothing awakened baby, and towards three in the afternoon (the idea that she was really ill having taken complete possession of me) I asked where I could find the nearest doctor, and being told, I went off in search of him.

The doctor was on his rounds, so I left a written message indicating baby’s symptoms and begging him to come to her immediately.

On the way back I passed a number of children’s funerals—­easily recognisable by the combined coach and hearse, the white linen “weepers” worn by the coachman and his assistant, and the little coffin, sprinkled with cheap flowers, in the glass case behind the driver’s seat.  These sights, which brought back a memory of the woman who carried my baby down the Mile End Road, almost deprived me of my senses.

I had hardly got back and taken off my coat and warmed my hands and dress by the fire before taking baby in my lap, when the doctor, in his gig, pulled up at the door.

He was a young man, but he seemed to take in the situation in a moment.  I was the mother, wasn’t I?  Yes.  And this woman was baby’s nurse?  Yes.

Then he drew up a chair and looked steadfastly down at baby, and I went through that breathless moment, which most of us know, when we are waiting for the doctor’s first word.

“Some acute digestive trouble here apparently,” he said, and then something about finding out the cause of it.

But hardly had he put his hands on my child as she lay in my lap than there came a faintly discoloured vomit.

“What have you been giving her?” he said, looking round at Mrs. Oliver.

Mrs. Oliver protested that she had given baby nothing except her milk, but the doctor said sharply: 

“Don’t talk nonsense, woman.  Show me what you’ve given her.”

Then Mrs. Oliver, looking frightened, went upstairs and brought down a bottle of medicine, saying it was a soothing syrup which I had myself bought for baby’s cough.

“As I thought!” said the doctor, and going to the door and opening it, he flung the bottle on to the waste ground opposite, saying as he did so: 

“If I hear of you giving your babies any more of your soothing syrup I’ll see what the Inspector has to say.”

After that, ignoring nurse, he asked me some searching and intimate questions—­if I had had a great grief or shock or worry while baby was coming, and whether and how long I had nursed her.

I answered as truthfully as I could, though I saw the drift of his inquiries, and was trembling with fear of what he would tell me next.

He said nothing then, however, except to make his recommendations.  And remembering my loss of work, my heart sank as he enumerated baby’s needs—­fresh cow’s milk diluted with lime water, small quantities of meat juice, and twenty to thirty drops of the best brandy three or four times a day.