"Indeed, that is right, Kirsty; one can never tell just what sort of people are traveling about nowadays.""Indeed, and it's true," said Kirsty, heartily, "but I never let them in here. I just keep them to the bunk.""But," pursued Mrs. Murray, returning to the subject in hand, "it is very important that for sick people the sheets should be thoroughly aired and warmed. Why, in the hospital in Montreal they take the very greatest care to air and change the sheets every day.
You see so much poison comes through the pores of the skin.""Do you hear that now?" said Kirsty, amazed. "Indeed, I would be often hearing that those French people are just full of poison and such, and indeed, it is no wonder, for the food they put inside of them.""O, no, " said Mrs. Murray, "it is the same with all people, but especially so with sick people."Kirsty looked as doubtful as was consistent with her respect for the minister's wife, and Mrs. Murray went on.
"So you will just get the sheets ready to change, and, Kirsty, a clean night-shirt.""Night-shirt! and indeed, he has not such a thing to his name."Kirsty's tone betrayed her thankfulness that her brother was free from the effeminacy of a night-shirt; but noting the dismay and confusion on Mrs. Murray's face, she suggested, hesitatingly, "He might have one of my own, but I am thinking it will be small for him across the back.""I am afraid so, Kirsty," said the minister's wife, struggling hard with a smile. "We will just use one of his own white shirts." But this scandalized Kirsty as an unnecessary and wasteful luxury.
"Indeed, there is plenty of them in the chist, but he will be keeping them for the communion season, and the funerals, and such.
He will not be wearing them in his bed, for no one will be seeing him there at all.""But he will feel so much better," said Mrs. Murray, and her smile was so sweet and winning that Kirsty's opposition collapsed, and without more words both sheets and shirt were produced.
As Kirsty laid them out she observed with a sigh: "Aye, aye, she was the clever woman--the wife, I mean. She was good with the needle, and indeed, at anything she tried to do.""I did not know her," said Mrs. Murray, softly, "but every one tells me she was a good housekeeper and a good woman.""She was that," said Kirsty, emphatically, "and she was the light of his eyes, and it was a bad day for Hugh when she went away.""Now, Kirsty," said Mrs. Murray, after a pause, "before we put on these clean things, we will just give him a sponge bath."Kirsty gasped.
"Mercy sakes! He will not be needing that in the winter, and he will be getting a cold from it. In the summer-time he will be going to the river himself. And how will you be giving him a bath whatever?"Mrs. Murray carefully explained the process, again fortifying her position by referring to the practices of the Montreal hospital, till, as a result of her persuasions and instructions, in an hour after Macdonald had awakened from his sleep he was lying in his Sabbath white shirt and between fresh sheets, and feeling cleaner and more comfortable than he had for many a day. The fever was much reduced, and he fell again into a deep sleep.
The two women watched beside him, for neither would leave the other to watch alone. And Ranald, who could not be persuaded to go up to his loft, lay on the bunk in the kitchen and dozed. After an hour had passed, Mrs. Murray inquired as to the nourishment Kirsty had given her brother.
"Indeed, he will not be taking anything whatever," said Kirsty, in a vexed tone. "And it is no matter what I will be giving him.""And what does he like, Kirsty?"
"Indeed, he will be taking anything when he is not seek, and he is that fond of buckwheat pancakes and pork gravy with maple syrup over them, but would he look at it! And I made him new porridge to-night, but he would not touch them.""Did you try him with gruel, Kirsty?"
"Mercy me, and is it Macdonald Dubh and gruel? He would be flinging the 'feushionless' stuff out of the window.""But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try it. I should like to try him.""Indeed, and you may try. It will be easy enough, for the porridge are still in the pot."Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously.
It was thick and slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs. Murray no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh's distaste for gruel.
"I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty--in the way I make it for the minister, you know."Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way;so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.
He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep.
"Will you look at that now?" said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance. "He would not like to be offending you."Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do.
It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep, breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back LeNoir.
"Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!"Then followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room.
"Bring in some snow, Ranald," said the minister's wife; "we will lay some on his head."She bathed the hot face and hands with ice-cold water, and then laid a snow compress on the sick man's head, speaking to him in quiet, gentle tones, till he was soothed again to sleep.
When the gray light of the morning came in through the little window, Macdonald woke sane and quiet.
"You are better," said Mrs. Murray to him.
"Yes," he said, "I am very well, thank you, except for the pain here." He pointed to his chest.
