Daisy In The Field

I turned again from the past, as the doctor came in, to look

at the poor creature herself. She did not answer the words he

addressed to her; I doubted if she heard them; she was

evidently oppressed with disease, which was fast making an end

of her. Experience had taught me now to judge somewhat of the

looks and condition of sick people. Molly, I saw, was very

sick; and I knew soon that it was with a combination of evils,

which had taken hold of her, and made her poor existence a

wearisome thing. It was near an end now.

"Speak to her," - said the doctor.

And I did, and he did; but we got no response. None in words;

I fancied that the look of the face bore witness to some

aroused attention; might it be more? One hand of Molly's lay

stretched out upon the coverlid. She was a mass of disease; I

should not have thought once that I could touch that hand; but

I had had training since then. I put my hand upon that poor

hand and clasped it. I fancied, I cannot tell why, that Molly

was sensible of my action and that she liked it; yet she did

not speak. - We sat so, my hand in hers, or hers in mine, and

Dr. Sandford watching us. Time went by. I hardly knew how it

went.

"How long will you stay?" he asked at length.

"I cannot leave her so, Dr. Sandford."

"You cannot stay here!"

"Why not?"

"It would be a peculiar proceeding. You would not do it?"

"I cannot do otherwise, Dr. Sandford. I cannot leave her alone

in this condition."

"I cannot leave you," he said.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," I returned, looking at

him. "And something may need to be done."

The doctor's look in answer was unguarded; it expressed so

much that he did not generally allow himself to express; it

was full of tenderness, of reverence, of affection. Full it

was of sorrow too. It was not a look I could meet. I turned

from it hastily; the former question was let drop; and we were

again still and silent. I had enough to keep me silent, and

Dr. Sandford was as mute. All three of us only breathed in

company, for a long while more; though I suppose some of Dr.

Sandford's meditations and mine came near together. I do not

know how time went; but then, the one to break silence was the

one I had thought might never speak again. Suddenly she began

in a low sort of crooning voice, saying over and over the same

words "I am in the valley - in the valley - in the valley -"

Maybe half a dozen times she repeated these words; and

forlornly true as they seemed of her, I was in doubt whether

she knew of what she was speaking. Could intelligence be

awake, in that oppressed condition of the bodily powers? Her

speech was a sort of mumbling repetition. But then, with a

change of tone, clean and round the words came out "But there's light in the valley! -"