The doctor was on his rounds, so I left a written message indicating
baby's symptoms and begging him to come to her immediately.
On the way back I passed a number of children's funerals--easily
recognisable by the combined coach and hearse, the white linen "weepers"
worn by the coachman and his assistant, and the little coffin, sprinkled
with cheap flowers, in the glass case behind the driver's seat. These
sights, which brought back a memory of the woman who carried my baby
down the Mile End Road, almost deprived me of my senses.
I had hardly got back and taken off my coat and warmed my hands and
dress by the fire before taking baby in my lap, when the doctor, in his
gig, pulled up at the door.
He was a young man, but he seemed to take in the situation in a moment.
I was the mother, wasn't I? Yes. And this woman was baby's nurse? Yes.
Then he drew up a chair and looked steadfastly down at baby, and I went
through that breathless moment, which most of us know, when we are
waiting for the doctor's first word.
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