THE BROTHERS.
Doctor Franck came in as I sat sewing up the
rents in an old shirt, that Tom might go tidily to his
grave. New shirts were needed for the living, and
there was no wife or mother to "dress him handsome
when he went to meet the Lord," as one
woman said, describing the fine funeral she had
pinched herself to give her son.
"Miss Dane, I'm in a quandary," began the
Doctor, with that expression of countenance which
says as plainly as words, "I want to ask a favor,
but I wish you'd save me the trouble."
"Can I help you out of it?
"Faith! I don't like to propose it. but you
certainly can, if you please."
"Then give it a name, I beg."
"You see a Reb has just been brought in crazy
with typhoid; a bad case every way; a drunken,
rascally little captain somebody took the trouble
to capture, but whom nobody wants to take the
trouble to cure. The wards are full, the ladies
worked to death, and willing to be for our own
boys, but rather slow to risk their lives for a Reb.
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