In this, I followed my usual course of treatment as to giving medicines.  If I could produce a reaction, or remove some obstruction, and give nature a chance, I did not think it wise to keep on with drugs, which, from their general poisonous qualities, make even well people sick—­regarding the struggle of life with disease as hazardous enough, without increasing the risk by adding a new cause of disturbance, unless the need of its presence were unmistakably indicated.

The course of this fever is always slow and exhausting.  My patient sunk steadily, day by day, while I continued to watch the case with more than common anxiety.  At the end of a week, she was feeble as an infant, and lay, for the most part, in a state of coma.  I visited her two or three times every day, and had the thought of her almost constantly in my mind.  Her mother, nerved for the occasion, was calm, patient, and untiring.  The excitement which appeared on the occasion of my first visits, when there was doubt as to the character of the disease, passed away, and never showed itself again during her daughter’s illness.  I saw, daily, deeper into her character, which more and more impressed me with its simple grandeur, if I may use the word in this connection.  There was nothing trifling, mean, or unwomanly about her.  Her mind seemed to rest with a profoundly rational, and at the same time child-like trust, in Providence.  Fear did not unnerve her, nor anxiety stay her hands in any thing.  She met me, at every visit, with dignified self-possession, and received my report of the case, each time, without visible emotion.  I had not attempted to deceive her in any thing from the beginning; she had seen this, and the fact gave her confidence in all my statements touching her daughter’s condition.

At the end of a week, I commenced giving stimulants, selecting, as the chief article, sound old Maderia wine.  The effect was soon apparent, in a firmer pulse and a quickened vitality.  The lethargic condition in which she had lain for most of the time since the commencement of the attack, began to give way, and in a much shorter period than is usually the case, in this disease, we had the unmistakable signs of convalescence.

“Thank God, who, by means of your skill, has given me back my precious child!” said the mother to me, one day, after Blanche was able to sit up in bed.  She took my hand and grasped it tightly.  I saw that she was deeply moved.  I merely answered: 

“With Him are the issues of life.”

“And I have tried to leave all with Him,” she said.  “To be willing to suffer even that loss, the bare thought of which makes me shudder.  But I am not equal to the trial, and in mercy He has spared me.”

“He is full of compassion, and gracious.  He knows our strength, and will not test it beyond the limits of endurance.”

“Doctor,” she said, a light coming into her face, “I have much to say to you, but not now.  I think you can understand me.”