What Came Afterwards CHAPTER 2.

The house was small and poor. A dim light shone through one of the second story windows, and the Doctor could see, as he looked up, a shadow on the ceiling, as of some person walking in the room above. His knock at the door was almost immediately answered by a child, who held a candle elevated above her head.

"Does Mrs. Ewbank live here?"

"Oh, it's you, Doctor! Come in, please." Doctor Hofland recognized his visitor of the evening. The child stepped back, and he entered, closing the door. He was in a room instead of a hall, the door opening directly on the street.

"I'll call mother," said the child, as she set the candlestick on a table. "Please to take a chair, sir."

The few minutes that intervened before Mrs. Ewbank came down, gave Doctor Hofland an opportunity to make, by the feeble light of a single tallow candle, a running inventory of what was in the room. The floor had no carpet. Five old cane-seat chairs were against the walls, and a small mahogany table, dark and dim with age, stood under the window, which had neither shade nor blind. A papered fireboard concealed the hearth. Two small frames hung just over the mantel-piece, but the light was so feeble that the Doctor could not make out from where he sat, whether they contained miniature portraits or fancy pictures. An impulse of curiosity led him to cross the room for the purpose of examining them closely. They were evidently miniatures, one of a man, and the other of a woman, in the ripeness of early prime. The first impression was that of familiar faces; but not being able to make out the features distinctly, he was turning for the candle, when a woman entered the apartment. She had descended the stairs so noiselessly, that her coming was not observed.

Though scant and poor, the room was clean and orderly; a fact which the Doctor had not failed to observe. He was not surprised, therefore, to see in Mrs. Ewbank, a neat, though plainly attired person. She wore a dark wrapper, carefully buttoned, and her hair was evenly parted, and brushed smoothly away over her temples. Though apparently some years past thirty, and showing signs of wasting sickness, or of mental trouble which exhausts more than physical sickness, her eyes were large and bright, with something of youthful fire in them, that a mother's present anxieties could not extinguish. What most impressed the Doctor, was the refined aspect of her countenance, and the manner, which showed cultivation.

"Doctor Hofland," she said, in a low voice, yet fixing her eyes intently upon his face, and in a questioning manner. The tone struck him as familiar, and stirred for a moment old feelings, in a vague, uncertain way. But he failed to recognize in her features those of an acquaintance or friend.

"Mrs. Ewbank?" he responded.

"Yes sir."

"You have a sick child?"

"Yes, sir. Will you walk up and see him?"

She led the way, and Doctor Hofland ascended to one of the chambers above. He found the furniture almost as meager as in the room below; but the same order and cleanlinessprevailed. On the bed lay an emaciated child, a year old, in whose pinched features he saw at the first glance a sign of approaching death.

"How long has he been sick?" asked the Doctor, as he sat down, and laid his fingers on the wasted little hand, limp as a wilted leaf.

"He's never been a well child since he was born, Doctor."

There was something so familiar in the answering voice that Doctor Hofland looked up curiously into the woman's face. She turned partly away, as if to avoid the scrutiny.

"What seems particularly to ail him? How is he affected?"

"I can hardly tell you, Doctor. He cries a great deal, and doesn't eat. There's something the matter inwardly."

A slight spasm went shuddering through the little frame, and a low cry cut the air. A moment, and it was gone, and the pinched features settled into quiet again. The Doctor bent down, and examined the face carefully. While doing so, a man in the next room coughed two or three times, at which he raised himself and listened, noting, with a professional ear, the sound.

"My husband," said the woman. He turned to the sick child again, watching its face, and observing the respiration. He then wrote a prescription.

"Send for this, and give him one of the powders every hour through the night when not sleeping. If he sleeps, don't disturb him."

"Do you think him very ill?" asked the mother, in an anxious voice.

"He's a sick child." What less could the Doctor say, when he saw death written all over the ashen face?

"But you can help him, Doctor?" said Mrs. Ewbank, in a pleading voice.

"It would have been better if I had seen him earlier," remarked the Doctor. He wished to prepare her for what seemed inevitable.

"I know it was wrong in me not to send," the poor mother answered, in a distressed way. "But . ." She checked herself, and left the words that were on her tongue unspoken.

"Why didn't you send before?" The Doctor's interest was still further awakened.

But Mrs. Ewbank did not reply immediately, and in the pause that followed, the sound of coughing was again heard in the next room.

"How long has your husband been coughing in that way?" asked Doctor Hofland.

"Only about a week, so badly. But, he's coughed for a long time."

"Has he taken medicine, or seen a physician, within the past week?"

"We got some cough mixture from a druggist's; but that only relieved him for a little while. It kind of stupefies him."

"And leaves the cough harder afterwards?"

"Yes, sir. He's worse when the effect passes off."

The doctor shook his head. There was a pause, and then he asked,

"May I see your husband?"

"Oh, Doctor! If you will!" Hope and gratitude were in her face — and tears in her eyes. "Wait just a moment," she added; and then passed into the chamber where her husband lay, to prepare him for the Doctor's visit. She came back quickly, saying — "Now Doctor," and the physician entered. Though everything, as perceived by the feeble rays of a single poor candle, was as clean as in the other rooms, and in order — yet the articles were scant; and the whole air of the apartment dreary. The remains of a wood fire smouldered on the hearth, but there was little pervading warmth in the atmosphere.

At a glance, Doctor Hofland saw that Mr. Ewbank was not a coarse or common man. His mouth and nose were cleanly cut; his eyes full of intelligence; and his purely white forehead of ample breadth. His hair was very dark and fine, and curled back from the transparent skin of his temples, through which was perceived the azure network of veins.

"My husband, Mr. Ewbank. Doctor Hofland." There was an air of refinement about Mrs. Ewbank, now more particularly observed. Not much change took place in the countenance of her husband; though, as the Doctor sat down, and laid his fingers on his pulse, he kept his large bright eyes fixed steadily on him.

"You have a fever," remarked the Doctor.

"Yes, I've been feverish for some days." A fit of coughing followed this reply.

"What excites this cough?" asked the Doctor.

"A creeping and tickling here in the throat pit. And he touched the spot.

"Does the coughing produce pain?"

"Now it does. The jarring seems to have hurt my chest."

"The pain is not stabbing or acute?"

"No — it is a sore pain, as if the lungs were bruised."

Still holding the patient's wrist, the Doctor bent his head thoughtfully for some moments. Then he asked —

"May I see the cough mixture you have been taking?"

Mrs. Ewbank went to a closet and brought out a large vial. After smelling and tasting the contents, the Doctor shook his head.

"Do you think it has done him any harm?" the wife asked, with much apparent anxiety.

"It has done him no good, at least. Don't give him any more of it."

"It contains opium," remarked the patient.

"Yes, and gave you a temporary relief. But, when the effect wore of, your cough was dryer and harder than before."

"That was just the effect."

"And you have grown more feverish?"

"Yes."

"I will give you something better." The Doctor spoke with cheerful confidence, and drawing a memorandum book from his pocket, wrote a prescription.

"Take, according to directions accompanying the medicine, and I think, when I call tomorrow morning, that I shall find a decided improvement."

The Doctor noticed a gleam of hopeful light break over Mrs. Ewbank's face. He then retired, and, in passing through the next room, stopped to look at the sick child again.

"He is sleeping," said the mother, in a whisper, as she stooped over the bed.

The Doctor did not reply. After standing there a few moments, he turned and left the chamber; Mrs. Ewbank following him downstairs. "You will come in the morning?" she said.

"O, yes. I'll be around early." There was something unspoken in her thought, and he paused that she might give it utterance. But she stood silent, and evidently in debate with herself. He was moving towards the door again, when she said —

"Doctor," apparently speaking under self-compulsion. He turned and looked at her with kind encouragement in his face.

"Is there a Dispensary in the neighborhood?" Her voice shook, and a flush came to her pale cheeks. Doctor Hofland understood too well the meaning of this question. Moving back from the door, he regarded her, earnestly, for a moment or two, and read that in her wasted countenance, of which he had not guessed in the beginning — read of hunger, and the exhaustion of life through lack of food. Under the sharp inquiry of his eyes, she shrunk back, and held the candle so that her face would be more in shadow.

"Send your little girl with me," said the Doctor.

Mrs. Ewbank moved to the stairway and called, "Esther!"

"Yes, ma'am," was the child's response, and in a moment quick feet were heard in the chamber above.

"Bring your hood, the Doctor wants you to go with him."

"It is cold out, my dear," said Doctor Hofland, looking narrowly at the child, as she came downstairs. "Haven't you a cloak, or a coat? That shawl is too thin."

"Oh, I'll be warm enough," was answered, in a brave, cheerful way. And so they went out together. The nearest drug store was at a distance of three squares. On the way, Doctor Hofland asked a few leading questions, in order to gain, without drawing his little companion into undue communicativeness, some idea of the condition of things at home.

"Have you always lived in Baltimore?" was one of his questions.

"Oh no, sir. We haven't lived here very long."

"How long?"

"Maybe about a year."

"Where did you live before you came to Baltimore?"

"In Albany."

"In New York?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did your father keep a store in Albany?"

"Oh no, sir. He kept a school."

"Ah! A school?"

"Yes, sir. But he got sick, and lost it. And then we came here."

"Has your father taught since he has been in this city?"

"Yes, sir, for a little while; but not in his own school."

"He gave lessons in somebody else's school?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did he teach?"

"Latin and Greek, sir. But he can teach anything."

"He doesn't give lessons now?"

"No, sir. They got another man in his place; and he's been too sick to teach for a good while."

"How long is it since they got another man in his place?"

The child thought for some moments, and then replied,

"Ever since August. I know it from my birthday."

"That was in August?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old were you then?"

"I was eight years old, sir."'

"Eight years. And your name is Esther?"

"That is my name."

"Called after your mother?"

"No, sir, after my grandmother. But she's dead."

They were now at the druggist's shop, and entering, Doctor Hofland ordered the two prescriptions. While they were being prepared, he scanned the child's face closely. Some would have called it pretty; but he saw in its regular oval, so many signs of endurance and suffering, that, as he gazed upon it, his heart was touched.

"Give me two packages of oatmeal," he said, to the druggist, as he received the compounded medicines. "Now, Esther," turning to the child, "tell your mother to make a large bowl of gruel, and let your father drink as much of it as he can."

"Before he takes his medicine?" asked the child, lifting her earnest eyes to the Doctor's face.

"Yes. First the gruel, remember; and if his cough doesn't trouble him, he needn't take the medicine for an hour afterwards. Good night, dear. Run home as fast as you can; and tell your mother by no means to omit the gruel."

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