“Good evenin’, ladies,” ses he, jest as pleasin’ and perlite as if nothing wasn’t the matter. “Good evenin’, Majer; how are you this—” “The baby! the baby!” ses all of ’em. “Docter, can’t you cure the baby?” “Yes, docter,” ses Mary, “our only hope is in you, docter.” “And Providence, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins. It seemed like the docter never would git all his grate-coats, and gloves, and hankerchers off, though the wimmin was hurryin’ him and helpin’ him all they could. Bimeby he drawed a cheer up to whar Mary was sittin’ to look at the baby. “What’s the matter with yer child, Mrs. Jones?” ses he, pullin’ away its gown and feelin’ its pulse. “I don’t know, docter; but it’s dredful sick,” ses Mary. “When was it tuck sick, and what is its simptoms?” ses the docter. All of ’em begun to tell at once, ’til the docter told ’em he could understand ’em better if they’d only talk one at a time, and then Mary told him all about it. “And how much parrygorrick did you give it?” ses Docter Gaiter. “Five draps,” ses old Miss Stallins, “I wanted to give it more, but the children was all so skeery.” “Let me see your parrygorrick,” ses the docter. He tuck it and smelled it, and tasted it, and then, says he: “You’re sure you didn’t give it only five draps, Madam?” “No, no more’n five,” ses Mary, “for I poured it out myself.” Then the docter looked monstrous wise at the baby, for ’bout a minit, and if you could jest seed the wimmin lookin’ at him. None of us breathed a single breth, and poor Mary looked rite in the docter’s face, as if she wanted to see his very thoughts. “Doc—” “Is—” “Don’t be ’larmed, Madam,” ses he, “ther ain’t no danger!” Sich a change as cum over the crowd! The room seemed to git lighter in a instant. It was like the sunlight breakin’ through a midnight sky. Mary cried like a child, and hugged her baby to her bussum, and kissed it a dozen times, and talked baby talk to it; and the galls begun puttin’ the room to rights, so it would be fit for the docter to see it. “Is you sure ther ain’t no danger, docter?” ses old Miss Stallins. “None in the least, Madam,” ses he. “Ther’s nothing in the world the matter of the child, only it had a little touch of the hives, what made it laugh and roll its eyes about in its sleep. In your fright, you burnt its mouth with yer hot teas, till it cried a little, and then you’ve doctered it with hot baths, ingin-juice, and parrygorrick, till you’ve stupified it a little. That’s all, Madam. By mornin’ it’ll be well as ever it was, if you don’t give it no more big doses of parrygorrick.” “I sed so,” ses old Miss Stallins. “I told the child ther was no use in takin’ on so ’bout the baby. But young people is so easy skeered, you know, docter.” “Yes, and old grandmothers too, sumtimes,” ses he, laughin’. The baby soon quit moanin’ so bad, and Mary laid it in the bed and kiver’d it over with kisses.