Its leaves were now coated
with dust; but the week before it had borne an actual cluster of
scented blossom; and he was still in the wonder of the lavender
fragrance on the meager starved stem.
The beat of hoofs approached, and he turned, seeing Doctor Frazee in
his yellow cart.
"Oh, doctor!" he called instinctively.
The other stopped, a man with a lean face, heavy curved nose and
penetrating gaze behind large spectacles. He was in reality a
veterinary, but Lemuel Doret, out of a profound caution, had discovered
him to be above the narrow scope of local prejudice.
"I wish you'd look at Flavilla," Doret continued.
The doctor hesitated, and then turned shortly in at the sidewalk. "It
will hurt no one if I do that." Above Flavilla's flushed face, a
tentative finger on her wrist, Frazee's expression grew serious. "I'll
tell you this," he asserted; "she's sick. You had better call Markley
to-day. And until he comes don't give her any solids. You can see she's
in a fever."
"Can't you tend her? I'd put more on you than any fresh young hospital
stiff."
"Certainly not," he responded.
When the latter had gone Lemuel Doret found his wife in the kitchen.
She wore a pale-blue wrapper with a soiled scrap of coarse lace at her
full throat, her hair was gathered into a disorderly knot, and already
there was a dab of paint on either cheek. She had been pretty when he
married her, pretty and full of an engaging sparkle, a ready wit; but
the charm had gone, the wit had hardened into a habit of sarcasm.
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