Then he led poor Henry Leeds--still crying out that he would not have the doctor--into his house and his bedroom, and got him to bed, though it was a hard task.
"I tell you, Henry," pleaded Jerome, struggling with him to loosen his neck-band, "you shall not have the doctor; I'll doctor you myself." "You don't know how--you don't know how, J'rome! She'll say you don't know how; she'll send for him, an' then, when he's got all my land, how am I goin' to get them a livin' ?" "I tell you, Doctor Prescott sha'n't darken your doors, Henry Leeds, if you'll behave yourself," said Jerome, stoutly; "and I can break up a fever as well as he can, if you'll only let me.

Mother broke up one for me, and I never forgot it.

You let me get your clothes off and get you into bed, Henry." Jerome had had some little experience through nursing his mother, but, more than that, had the natural instinct of helpfulness, balanced with good sense and judgment, which makes a physician.
Moreover, he worked with as fiery zeal as if he were a surgeon in a battle-field.

Soon he had Henry Leeds in his feather bed, with all the wedding quilts and blankets of poor young Laura piled over him.
The fire was almost out, for the girl was a poor house-keeper, and not shod by nature for any of the rough emergencies of life.

Jerome had the fire blazing in short space, and some hot water and hot bricks in readiness.
Poor young Laura Leeds had to go almost half a mile for her healing herbs, as the first neighbor was away from home and no one came in answer to her knocks.