As to Fontenette, all
his symptoms so far are good. Well--I'll be back in the morning."
So ran the time. There were no more new cases in our house; Mrs. Smith and
I had had the scourge years before, as also had Senda, who remained over
the way. Fontenette passed from one typical phase of the disorder to
another "charmingly" as the doctor said, yet he specially needed just such
exceptionally delicate care as his wife was giving him. In the city at
large the deaths per day were more and more, and one night when it
showered and there was a heavenly cooling of the air, the increase in the
mortality was horrible. But the weather, as a rule, was steady and
tropically splendid; the sun blazed; the moonlight was marvellous; the
dews were like rains; the gardens were gay with butterflies. Our
convalescent little ones hourly forgot how gravely far they were from
being well, and it became one of our heavy cares to keep the entomologist
from entomologizing--and from overeating.
From time to time, when shorthanded we had used skilled nurses; but when
Mrs. Fontenette grew haggard and we mentioned them, she said
distressfully: "O! no hireling hands! I can't bear the thought of it!" and
indeed the thought of the average hired "fever-nurse" of those days was
not inspiring; so I served as her alternate when she would accept any and
throw herself on the couch Senda had spread in the little parlor.
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