I did not attempt to give medicine, but left unerring nature to do
her own work.
Mrs. Dewey did not again look upon the faces of her dead children.
They were buried ere her mind awoke to any knowledge of passing
events. I was at the funeral, and closely observed her husband. He
appeared very sober, and shed some tears at the grave, when the
little coffins were lowered together into the earth.
It was a week before Mrs. Dewey was clearly conscious of external
things. I visited her every day, watching, with deep interest, her
slow convalescence. It was plain, as her mind began to recover its
faculties, that the memory of a sad event had faded; and I was
anxious for the effect, when this painful remembrance was restored.
One day I found her sitting up in her room. She smiled feebly as I
came in, and said:
"Doctor, am I never going to get well? It seems like an age since I
became sick."
"You are getting on finely," I answered, in a cheerful way, sitting
down by her and taking her hand, which was wasted and shadowy.
"I don't know about that, Doctor," she said.
Pages:
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294