Just as the doctor said, what was needed was
enlightenment. "Listen," he said, "why don't you try to get
cured?"
"I haven't got the price," was the answer.
"Well," he said, hesitatingly, "I know a doctor--one of the
really good men. He has a free clinic, and I've no doubt he
would take you in if I asked him to."
"YOU ask him?" echoed the other, looking at George in surprise.
The young man felt somewhat uncomfortable. He was not used to
playing the role of the good Samaritan. "I--I need not tell him
about us," he stammered. "I could just say that I met you. I
have had such a wretched time myself, I feel sorry for anybody
that's in the same plight. I should like to help you if I
could."
The girl sat staring before her, lost in thought. "I have
treated you badly, I guess," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm ashamed
of myself."
George took a pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote the
doctor's address. "Here it is," he said, in a business-like way,
because he felt that otherwise he could become sentimental. He
was half tempted to tell the woman what had happened to him, and
all about Henriette and the sick child; but he realized that that
would not do. So he rose and shook hands with her and left.
The next time he saw the doctor he told him about this girl. He
decided to tell him the truth--having already made so many
mistakes trying to conceal things. The doctor agreed to treat
the woman, making the condition that George promise not to see
her again.
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