The door is reached.  Perhaps the child is already easier.  The door is opened.  The smell of flaxseed reproduces every horror of Davy’s first attack.  After the man has grown used to the flaxseed he begins to detect the odor of stramonium.  The pan is dry.  Carry it back to the stove and put some hot water in it.  But look at Davy first.

“Esther, how is he?”

“I think he is growing better, David.”

“The room here is not warm enough.  Let us carry him back where the stove is.”

The cook is on the stairs and beholds the little cortege.  “Lord!  Lord!” she wails, and the housekeeper silences the cry.  “They carry them like that at the hospital,” the frightened woman explains.  “But they are always dead!”

In the kitchen sits a woman, visiting the cook.  Her face is the very picture of trouble.  She rocks her body as she talks.

“I buried seven,” she says.

“Seven children?”

“Yes, and every one with membrainyous croup.  They may call it what they please.  Ah!  I know; I know!”

She rocks her body, and laughs almost a silly laugh.

“Every one of them had a terrible attack, and then was well for a week.  Two of ’em dropped dead at play.  They seems so full of life just before they go.  When my husband broke his leg I lost one.  When I caught the small-pox they let one die.  Oh, my!  Oh, my!”

The woman rocks her body and laughs.

Lockwin wants more boiling water.  It gives him something to do to get it.  He enters the kitchen.

“Davy has the asthma,” he says to the desolate mother as he passes.

“Davy has the membrainyous croup,” she replies:  “I saw that a week ago.  Makes no difference what the doctors say; they can’t help no child.”

“Where is that doctor, Esther?” the man says.

“He was here while you were gone.  He said he would return soon.  He said it was a relapse, but he thought there was no danger.”

“It is lucky,” the man inwardly comments, “that we are all doctors.”

“He should have stayed here and attended to his business,” the man observes audibly, as he makes a new poultice.

“Mamma!” It is Davy.

“Yes, mamma is here.”

“Why don’t the doctor come?”

“Are you suffering, precious?”

“I don’t know.”

“There, let us warm your feet.  Don’t take them away, pet.  See, you breathe easily now.”

“Thank God!” says the man “that we are all doctors.”

The afternoon wanes.

“Georgie Day, mamma.”

“Yes, lamby.”

“I want him to have my sleeve-buttons.  He can play base-ball, not two-old-cat.  He can play real base-ball.”

“Yes, Georgie shall come to see you to-morrow.”

Lockwin goes to the speaking tube.

“Go and get Dr. Floddin at once.  Tell him to come and stay with us.  Tell him we have difficulty in keeping the child warm.”