My
simple treatment, the basis of which was quinine and whiskey, seemed to
strike old Tamar favorably; and after the second visit there was no need to
come again to see her. But by this time I was deep in the good books of her
mistress, who knows too little of illness herself to appreciate how little
has been done, by me at least, or how very little needed to be done after
restoring the old woman's confidence in her power to live. (The last time I
saw her she still wore the blue fascinator, but with a man's hat on top of
it; she was waddling toward the cow-corral with half a haystack, it looked
like, poised on a hay-fork above her head. She was certainly a credit to
her doctor, if not to her _corsetiere_, she and the haystack being much of
a figure.)
Miss Malcolm's innocent gratitude is most embarrassing, really painful,
under the circumstances, and the poor child cannot let the circumstances
alone. She imagines I am always thinking about Tom's scheme. It is evident
that _she_ is; and not being exactly a woman of the world, out of the
fullness of her heart her mouth speaketh. That would be all right if she
would speak to somebody else.
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