"Master, my baby!"
she sobbed. "The little one that was hurt!" So Carpenter said to the
crowd, "The sick child needs me. I must go in." They started to
press after him, and he added, "You must not come into the room. The
child will need air." He went inside, and knelt once more by the
couch, and put his hand on the little one's forehead. The mother, a
frail, dark Mexican woman, crouched at the foot, not daring to touch
either the man or the child, but staring from one to the other,
pressing her hands together in an agony of dread.
The little one opened his eyes, and gazed up. Evidently he liked
what he saw, for he kept on gazing, and a smile spread over his
features, a wistful and tender and infinitely sad little smile, of a
child who perhaps never had a good meal in his lifetime. "Nice man!"
he whispered; and the woman, hearing his voice again, began sobbing
wildly, and caught Carpenter's free hand and covered it with her
tears. "It is all right," said he; "all right, all right! He will
get well--do not be afraid.
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