Dr. Schneibel was standing for the third time at the tinsmith's, with
his stick under his nose, while his gig waited down in the road. Each
time he had added to both wages and arguments, and had again and again
pointed out how bad it would be both for her and her boy if she
continued so obstinate. He appealed to her own good sense. How could she
expect to bring him up in such poor, narrow circumstances, and with all
this toiling and moiling? She would only need to give up a part of her
large wages to the tinsmith, and they would look well after the boy.
Besides she could often come out and see him, at least once a month!--he
could promise her that on the Veyergangs' behalf, and it was very kind
of them now they lived such a long way out of town.

Dr. Schneibel talked both kindly and severely, both good-naturedly and
sharply: he was almost like a father.

Barbara felt a pang of fear every time she saw him come down the street,
and turn in by the rotten, mouldy wooden fence. She watched him like a
bird that is afraid for her nest, and was sitting close to the wall in
the darkest corner with the cradle behind her, when he opened the door.
It was impossible for her to answer except by a sob. The tinsmith's wife
did all the talking with: "Why, bless me, yes!" and "Bless me, no!" and
"Just so, doctor!" in garrulous superabundance, while Barbara only sat
and meditated on taking her baby on her back and departing.

But to-day the doctor had talked so very kindly to her and offered her
so much money. He had appealed so directly to her conscience, patted the
child, and said that when it came to the point, he was sure she was not
the mother who could be so cruel as to bring misery upon such a pretty
little fellow, let him suffer want, let his pretty little feet be cold,