Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 168, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 July 1915 — THE PERFECT CURE [ARTICLE]

THE PERFECT CURE

By DONALD BLAIR.

Mrs. Sargent patted the silk coverlet in a helpless sort of way and followed the physician into the hall, where she faced him with sorrowful eyes. “Can’t you do anything for the girl, doctor?’’ she whispered. He shook his head. "Not without her help, Mrs. Sargent," he said gravely. "If she had the slightest desire to get better —•” he paused tentatively. “That wretched affair with Ralph Dearing—l can speak freely to you, Doctor Lane, because you know all about ft! Of course, no one outside Of the family knew that they were engaged, ahd Elsie was saved that humiliation, but the shock of his jilting her and the sudden announcement of his marriage to Barbara Kent were too much for the child's sensitive soul. Who can blame her if she has no desire to live?” “Pooh —fiddlesticks!’’ sniffed the bluff doctor, patting Mrs. Sargent on a plump shoulder. "Elsie is young and this is her first love affair it must not be her last; it is our duty to see to that—yes, yours and mine! Before she grieves herself out of the world, you and I, Mrs. Sargent, must endeavor to create a new interest for her— something to make her want to live forever." “What can we do?” asked Elsie’s mother. “I have an idea which I will explain later, and now, good afternoon —and don’t worry!” Early the next morning Mrs. Sargent came into Elsie's sickroom with a troubled face. “Dearie, you are to have a new doctor today,” she announced when the nurse had left the room. “Doctor Lane haw been called to New York and young Doctor Phelps is taking care of his practice. I hope you don't mind.’ Elsie shook her golden head. She didn't mind anything any more not since that awful day when Ralph had called her on the telephone and nervously announced that he had just married Barbara Kent; that she must not mind; he wasn't worth bothering about, anyway. In view of his behavior this last remark was entirely superfluous, but Elsie did mind. She ha 4 just swooned away in the library, and for weeks the doctor and her devoted family had tried to keep her from drifting away into eternity. “It doesn't matter, mother," she whispered, and turned her face to the wall.

At two o’clock that afternoon Doctor Phelps made his first call at the Sargent’s pretty home. He sat down at the bedside, scanned the nurse's report and nodded approval. Then he lifted Elsie’s white little hand and laid his strong, warm fingers on the feeble pulse. Meanwhile he regarded the pale face on the pillow with a queer expression in his cool, gray eyes. The nurse had care that Elsie should look charming. Miss Whelan was middle-aged and still romantic, which might have explained why she had put her patient into her frilliest dressing sacque and her daintiest lace cap. The blue ribbons were no bluer than Elsie’s pathetic eyes. The doctor realized that when the dark lashes lifted and disclosed them. “Feeling better, eh?” breezed Doctor Phelps. Elsie’s eyes widened ever so slightly. She shook her head. ”1 feel about as usual,” she murmured. She didn’t close her eyes again because she was interested in the vision of a tall, broad-shouldered young man, black haired and gray eyed, with suntanned face and hands, who was wearing white flannels. A tennis racquet ■yuH tossed on a chair beside his w hite felt hat. “You don’t look a bit like a doctor!” she said, to her own amazement. “You don’t look a bit like a sick girl,” retorted Doctor Phelps, cheerfully. Elsie was interested. “But I am ill,” she protested. “I am very, very ill —and you ought to know it. Doctor Phelps,” with growing petulence. “That’s the trouble — I don’t see much the matter with you, save that you’re too tired to sit up and eat a lot of nourishing things—and to go down to the club and hold your reputation in the singles—” Elsie sat up In bed, a rose pink waving in her cheeks. “Tennis singles?" she repeated. “Who is entered for the match? Not Myra Hatfield?” The doctor nodded. “Miss Hatfield hnn strong hopes of taking the cup from you. I’m downright sorry, too, Miss Sargent, for they tell me you play a corking game. I'll have to test that heart action.” After he had applied the stethoscope he replaced it in its case and looked very cheerful. “Heart’s all right, Miss Sargent Don’t worry. Miss Hatfield may not carry off the cup after all." “She wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance if I could only get out,” was Elsie’s confident answer. “When does the match come off, Doctor Phelps? Pre lost all track of time.” “Not for eight weeks.” “I wonder—do you think if lam very, very careful t! at I might be well enough to play?* she asked wisttally. “Do you want to?”

“Do I?” She smiled adorably. “Then you can —that’s all there la to it. You can do anything you like If you only want to hard enough. Think that over, Miss Sargent.” He held her hand in his warm clasp for a moment, smiled down into her eyes, picked up his hat and racquet and disappeared with the nurse into the hall. Elsie gated after him, conscious of an acute pang of jealousy that Myra Hatfield could play tennis with Doctor Phelps while she, the woman champion of her club, had to lie tn bed. A sudden terror smote her that she might die after all. She had so earnestly prayed for death In those first horrible days. “Oh, I don't want to die!” she cried suddenly. And Miss Whelan ran back to hold her hands and assure her that the doctor had promised Mrs. Sargent that Elsie would be running around the garden in a fortnight. “And you know doctors don’t make rash promises. Miss Elsie,’’ admonished Miss Whelan kindly. *T am so glad," said Elsie quietly. Then, “What is that?" she asked as the purring of a motor fell on the summer air “That’s the doctor’s car. He’s going down to the club now,” said the nurse as she lifted Elsie to a sitting posture so that she could see the vista of straight road that ran past the house. “You can just see it skimming along now." Elsie looked eagerly at the small, shining car, was amazed at her sense of relief that the doctor was riding alone, and actually blushed because her heart beat faster at the thought of his coming visit the next day. When the little car had disappeared Elsie laid her head on her ruffled pillow and went to sleep with a smile touching her pink lips. The acute Miss Wheland winked at her own reflection In the mirror.

Mrs. Sargent came in and kissed her child’s peaceful face and cried a little on the nurse's broad shoulder. Then she sat down at the bedside while Miss Whelan went out and sent this telegram to Doctor Lane, in New York city: “Working finely. Don’t come home yet!” The next day Elsie was sitting in the window when the doctor arrived. They talked tennis for half an hour and Elsie declared that she felt worlds better and w’anted to talk longer, but the doctor was as wise as he was enthusiastic. and, again sporting his tennis flannels, he went on to the club. Inside of a week Elsie Sargent was downstairs and within the promised fortnight she was rather slowly trying out a new racquet in the tennis court in the Sargent grounds. It was a whole month before Doctor Phelps would permit her to ride down to the clubhouse with him in the shining lit? tie car, and he felt quite as triumphant as Elsie at the tennis match when Miss Sargent still held her place as champion. Mrs. Sargent wept a few tears when she tried to thank Doctor Lane for her child’s life. •’Tut—tut —thank Phelps, if he will let you," he interrupted. “I had hopes, for he is the best fellow In the world, but I hadn’t the slightest idea that everything would come out so well and that—well. Flora Sargent,” said the doctor, with a sudden tenderness in his tones as he laid his hands on the little widow’s shoulders, “if you are truly grateful, promise me one thing.” “Anything you like, Dick.” “Then, if Elsie marries Bert Phelps will you marry me?” “Yes —she won’t need me then.” “Very well, Flora; consider yourself as good as engaged to me!” he said, putting his arm around her. “Look!” Through the window they saw Elsie and the young doctor walking in the garden below. Suddenly they paused and Elsie looked up into Phelps’ compelling eyes. “See?” asked Doctor Lane tenderly. “Yes.” said Mrs. Sargent contentedly. “The cure is perfect” (Copyright, 1915, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)