Mr. Smith stood silent, helpless, and admiring. This was a gentlewoman of the old school, such as he remembered his own mother to have been, who was not afraid to use her own hands in ministering to the suffering and who wasted no time in questions. Every movement of her wrinkled but still firm fingers meant some solace to the little child, whose brown eyes roamed from one to another with a silent, pitiful appeal. In a twinkling, it seemed, Josephine was undressed, reclothed in soft, warm garments, her chest anointed with the relaxing oil, and a swallow of hot milk forced between her lips. Then Michael was dispatched to the nearest drug store and brought back a dose of the old-fashioned remedy Mrs. Merriman had used for her own little children. But she had hardly time to administer it before one of the physicians summoned had appeared, and to him she promptly resigned the direction of affairs. His first order was that Mr. Smith should go below to his own comfortable library and remain quiet, adding:
