“My daughter is very sick, Doctor.  What is the disease?” The mother spoke calmly and firmly.  “I am not one towards whom any concealments need be practised; and it is meet that I should know the worst, that I may do the best.”

“The disease, madam,” I replied, “has not yet put on all of its distinctive signs.  A fever—­we call it the fever of incubation—­is the forerunner of several very different ailments, and, at the beginning, the most accurate eye may fail to see what is beyond.  In the present case, however, I think that typhoid fever is indicated.”

I spoke as evenly as possible, and with as little apparent concern as possible.  But I saw the blood go instantly back from the mother’s face.

“Typhoid fever!” she ejaculated, in a low voice, clasping her hands together.  I learned afterwards that she had cause to dread this exhausting and often fatal disease.  “Oh, Doctor! do for her as if she were your own and only child.”

She grasped my arm, like one catching at a fleeting hope.

“As if she were my own and only child!” I repeated her words in promise and assurance, adding—­

“The first result of the medicine which I gave is just what I desired.  I will leave something more to be taken at intervals of two hours, until midnight.  In the morning, I hope to find a very encouraging change.”

“But, Doctor,” she replied, “if this is a case of typhoid fever, no hope of any quick change for the better can be entertained.  I am no stranger to the fearful malady.”

“Attacks of all diseases,” I answered to this, “are more or less severe, according to the nature of the predisposing and exciting causes.  So far as your daughter is concerned, I should think, from the very slight opportunity I have had of forming an opinion in regard to her, that she is not readily susceptible of morbific intrusions.  Under an unusual exposure to exciting causes, the balance of health has been overcome.  If my presumption is correct, we have the steady effort of nature, in co-operation with remedial agencies, working towards a cure.”

“Do you think the attack light, or severe?” the mother asked, speaking more calmly.

“Neither light nor severe; but of a character, judging from the first impression made upon it, entirely controllable by medicines.”

This opinion gave her confidence.  As I had spoken without any apparent concealment, she evidently believed the case to stand exactly as I had stated it.  After leaving medicine to be taken, every two hours, for the first part of the night, I went away.

In the morning, I found my patient in that comatose state, the usual attendant upon typhoid fever.  She aroused herself on my entrance, and answered all questions clearly.  She had no pain in the head, nor any distressing symptoms.  Her skin was soft and moist.  All things looked favorable.  I gave, now, only gentle diaphoretics, and let the case progress, watching it with the closest attention.