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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
78
I
was
confounded
by
this
way
of
looking
at
it,
and
turned
away,
after
once
more
begging
her
to
take
the
child
out.
She
plainly
regarded
the
advice
as
brutal,
and
I
heard
her
blowing
her
nose
all
down
the
drive.
In
June
the
father
told
me
he
would
like
the
doctor;
the
child
grew
thinner
every
day
in
spite
of
all
the
food
it
took.
A
doctor
was
got
from
the
nearest
town,
and
I
went
across
to
hear
what
he
ordered.
He
ordered
bottles
at
regular
intervals
instead
of
the
unbroken
series
it
had
been
having,
and
fresh
air.
He
could
find
nothing
the
matter
with
it,
except
unusual
weakness.
He
asked
if
it
always
perspired
as
it
was
doing
then,
and
himself
took
off
the
topmost
bag
of
feathers.
Early
in
July
it
died,
and
its
first
outing
was
to
the
cemetery
in
the
pine
woods
three
miles
off.
"I
took
such
care
of
it,"
moaned
the
mother,
when
I
went
to
try
and
comfort
her
after
the
funeral;
"it
would
never
have
lived
so
long
but
for
the
care
I
took
of
it."
"And
what
the
doctor
ordered
did
no
good?"
I
ventured
to
ask,
as
gently
as
I
could.
"Oh,
I
did
not
take
it
out--how
could
I--it
would
have
killed
it
at
once--at
least
I
have
kept
it
alive
till
now."
And
she
flung
her
arms
across
the
table,
and
burying
her
head
in
them
wept
bitterly.
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