An Act in a Backwater by E.F. Benson — Read

Before another week was over the fresh cases of typhoid had ceased. During the three days immediately following the thunder-storm rain had fallen again and again, heavily and all night long. By day the same liquid autumn weather had stretched its length of sunlit creamy hours as the morning on which Jeannie had watched the sunrise over the cleaned earth, but every evening at sunset the thick, desired clouds came trooping out of the south-west, and made night full of the noise of rain. The wells, swiftly fed by the spongy chalk, had filled, the foul water of the polluted springs was no longer drawn on, and the gorging microbe, with its holocaust of victims, Jeannie's fiend of the garden-scene, found none to drink from his shrine.

The first cases which had occurred were hardly out of the doctor's hands before the epidemic ceased, as suddenly as it had begun, but there was now no lack but rather a plethora of nurses, for typhoid is the nurses' favourite disease, since in it each case depends so entirely on them, and nothing is dearer to the skilled than responsibility.