Publisher's Synopsis
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands awarm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him: "Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.""Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glassbottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction."Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children ofher own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better thanto take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear younglamb do."Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect.The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on itsforehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back-and died. Theychafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope andcomfort. They had been strangers too long...
