"
"Where is she--at the receiving hospital? What is the matter with her?"
"Aisy, aisy, sor. It may be nothing. She's up stairs. A bit of a cut,
they say. Here, Shaughnessy, look out for this door! I'll take ye up,
sor."
We mounted the creaking stairs in the light of the smoky lamp that
stood on the bracket, and Corson opened a door for me.
A flickering candle played fantastic tricks with the furniture, sent
shadows dancing over the dingy walls, and gave a weird touch to the two
figures that bent over the bed in the corner. The figures straightened
up at our entrance, and I knew them for the doctor and his assistant.
"A friend of the lady, sor," whispered Corson.
The doctor looked at me in some surprise, but merely bowed.
"Is she badly hurt?" I asked.
"I've seen worse," he answered in a low voice, "but--" and he completed
the sentence by shrugging his shoulders, as though he had small hopes
for his patient.
Mother Borton turned her head on the pillow, and her gaunt face lighted
up at the sight of me. Her eyes shone with a strange light of their
own, like the eyes of a night-bird, and there was a fierce eagerness in
her look.
"Eh, dearie, I knew you would come," she cried.
The doctor pushed his way to the bedside.
"I must insist that the patient be quiet," he said with authority.
"Be quiet?" cried Mother Borton. "Is it for the likes of you that I'd
be quiet? You white-washed tombstone raiser, you body-snatcher, do you
think you're the man to tell me to hold my tongue when I want to talk
to a gentleman?"
"Hush!" I said soothingly.
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