"No, sir, I don't think they are. But my feet are sore."

I feared as much as this. "What is the matter with your feet?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir. The boys say that nothing's the matter with them, only they're a little snow-burnt."

"How do they feel?"

"They burn and itch, and are so tender I can hardly touch them. I can't sleep at nights sometimes for the burning and itching."

I examined the boy's feet, and found them red, shining and tumefied, with other indications of a severe attack of chilblains.

"What have you done for your feet?" I asked. "Does Mr. Maxwell know they are so bad?"

"I showed them to him, and he said it was only a snow-burn, and that I must put my feet in snow and let it draw the cold out."

"Did you do so?"

"Yes, sir, as long as I could bear it; but it hurt dreadful bad. Mr.

Maxwell said I didn't keep them in half long enough."

"Were they better afterward?"

"Yes, sir, I think they were; but I go out so much in the snow, and get them wet so often, that they can't get well."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"William."

"What else?"

"William Miller."

"Is your mother alive?"

The tone and manner of the boy, when he gave a half inarticulate negative, made me regret having asked the question. It was a needless one, for already knew that his mother was dead. It was meant, however, as a preliminary inquiry, and, having been made, I proceeded to question him, in order to learn something, briefly, of his history.

"Were you born in Baltimore?" I continued.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any relatives here?"

"Mr. P---- W---- is my uncle."

"Mr. W----?" I said, in surprise.

"Yes, sir--mother said he was my uncle."

"Is he your mother's brother?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he ever come to see your mother?"

"No, sir, he never came near us, and mother never went to see him."

"What was the reason?"

"I don't know, sir."

The child continued to look intently in my face, but I questioned him no further. I knew Mr. W---- very well, and settled it at once in my mind that I would call and see him about the lad. I stood musing for some moments after the boy's last reply, and then said--

"Tell Mr. Maxwell, that I will call down in about half an hour: Run home as quickly as you can, and try and keep out of the rain."

The sad, rebuking earnestness with which the boy looked at me, when I said this, touched my feelings. He had, evidently, expected more than a mere expression of sympathy; but I did not think it right to create any false hopes in his mind. I meant to do all I could to relieve his wretched condition; but did not know how far I would be successful.

I found, on visiting the child of Maxwell, that I had quite a severe case of croup on my hands. His respiration was very difficult, and sounded as if the air were forced through a metallic tube. There was a good deal of fever, and other unfavourable symptoms. The alb.u.minous secretion was large, and the formation of the false membrane so rapid as to threaten suffocation. I resorted to the usual treatment in such cases, and, happily, succeeded in producing a healthy change in the course of a few hours. So urgent had been the case, that, in attending to it, my mind had lost sight of the little boy on my first and second visits. As I was leaving the house on the morning succeeding the day on which I had been called in, I met him coming along the pa.s.sage with an armful of wood. The look he gave me, as he pa.s.sed, rebuked my forgetfulness, and forced me to turn back and speak to his master.

"Look here, Maxwell," I said, speaking decidedly, but in a voice so low that my words could not be heard distinctly by others in the room--"you must take better care of that boy Bill, or you will get into trouble."

"How so, doctor? I am not aware that I ill-treat him," returned the shoemaker, looking up with surprise.

"He is not clothed warmly enough for such weather as this."

"You must be mistaken. He has never complained of not feeling warm."

I took hold of Maxwell's pantaloons. They were made of coa.r.s.e, thick cloth, and I perceived that there were thick woollen drawers under them.

"Take off these heavy trowsers and drawers," said I, and in place of them put on a pair of half-worn corduroy pantaloons, "and go out of doors and stand in the rain until you are drenched to the skin. The experiment will enable you to decide for yourself whether Bill is warmly enough clad."

I spoke with earnestness. Either my manner, or what I said, produced a strong effect upon the shoemaker. I could see that I had offended him, and that he was struggling to keep down a feeling of anger that was ready to pour itself forth upon me for having presumed to remark upon and interfere with his business.

"Understand me," said I, wishing to prevent the threatened outbreak of pa.s.sion, "I speak as a physician, and my duty as a physician requires me to do so. The knowledge of, and the experience in diseases, which I possess, enable me to understand better than other men the causes that produce them, and to give, as I should give, to the unthinking, a warning of danger. And this I give to you now."

"All very well, doctor," returned Maxwell, "if you don't raise false alarms."

"Do you think I have done so in the present case?"

"I don't think any thing about it. I know you have."

"Then you think the lad warmly enough clothed?"

"If I did not think so, I would dress him more warmly."

"You have on three times the thickness of clothing that he has." I fixed my eyes intently on the man as I spoke.

"And his blood is three times as warm as mine. I need not tell you that, doctor."