"I wisht he wasn't so sad," she said, from time to time. "I expect
he's maybe pinin'."
On the following day there came a change. The little fellow tossed in
his bed with a fever that rose with every hour. With eyes now burning
bright, he scanned the face of the gray old miner and begged for
"Bruvver Jim."
"This is Bruvver Jim," the man assured him repeatedly. "What does baby
want old Jim to do?"
"Bruv-ver--Jim," came the half-sobbed little answer. "Bruv-ver--Jim."
Jim took him up and held him fast in his arms. The weary little mind
had gone to some tragic baby past.
"No-body--wants me--anywhere," he said.
The heart in old Jim was breaking. He crooned a hundred tender
declarations of his foster-parenthood, of his care, of his wish to be a
comfort and a "pard."
But something of the fever now had come between the tiny ears and any
voice of tenderness.
"Bruv-ver--Jim; Bruv-ver--Jim," the little fellow called, time and time
again.
With the countless remedies which her lore embraced, the almost
despairing Miss Doc attempted to allay the rising fever. She made
little drinks, she studied all the bottles in her case of simples with
unremitting attention.
Keno, the always-faithful, was sent to every house in camp, seeking for
anything and everything that might be called a medicine.
Pages:
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141