I gave him some from a mug on the table, not so much from any precocious gift for sick nursing (for I was simply "frightened out of my wits"), but because the imperative tone of his demand forced me involuntarily into doing what he wanted.
He grumbled, when between us we spilt the water on his clothes, and then, soothed for a few seconds, he lay down, till the fever, like a possessing demon, tossed him about once more, and his throat became as parched as ever, and again he moaned for "a drink," and we repeated the process.

This time the mug was emptied, and when he called a third time I could only say, "The mug's empty." "There's a pot behind the door," he muttered, impatiently; "look sharp!" Now food, and drink, and all other necessaries of life came to me without effort or seeking, and I was as little accustomed as any other rich man's son to forage for supplies; but on this occasion circumstances forced out of me a helpfulness which necessity early teaches to the poor.

I became dimly cognizant of the fact that water does not spring spontaneously in carafes, nor take a delicate colour and flavour in toast-and-water jugs of itself.

I found the water-pot, replenished the mug, and went back to my patient.

By the time his mother returned I had become quite clever in checking the spasmodic clutches which spilt the cold water into his neck.
From what Mrs.Taylor said to her friend, it was evident that she disapproved in some way of my presence, and the boy's mother replied to her whispered remonstrances, "I was _that_ put out, I never thought;" which I have no doubt was strictly true.
As I afterwards learnt, she got the blanket, and never ceased to laud my generosity.
I was rather proud of it myself, and it was not without complacency that I recounted to Nurse Bundle my first essay in "visiting the sick." But complacency was the last feeling my narrative awoke in Mrs.
Bundle.