wretched patients found in the morning sitting behind a leather-covered table, on which a stethoscope was conspicuously displayed, and who, after sounding the chests of consumptive curates or struggling clerks, would say, with an air of blandness, dashed with sorrow: "I'm afraid the proverbially treacherous air of our climate will not do for us, my dear sir! I'm afraid we must spend our winter at Madeira, or at least at Pau. Good day to you;" and then the doctor, after shaking hands. with his patient, would slip the tips of his fingers into his trousers-pockets, into which would fall another little paper package to join a number already there deposited, while the curate or clerk, whose yearly income was perhaps two hundred pounds, and who probably had debts amounting to twice his annual earnings, would go away wondering whether it was better to endeavor to borrow the further sum necessary, at ruinous interest, or to go back and die in the cold Lincolnshire clay parish, or in the bleak Northern city, as the case might be.

On one thing the doctor prided himself greatly, that he never let a patient know what he thought of him. He would bid a man remove his waistcoat with a semijocund air, and the next instant listen to a peculiar 66 click inside his frame, which betrayed the presence of heart-disease, liable at any moment to carry the man off, without altering a muscle of his face or a tone of his voice.

Hum! ha! we must be a little careful; we must not expose ourselves to the night-air! Take a leetle more care of yourself, my dear sir; for instance, I would wear a wrap round the throat some wrap you know, to prevent the cold striking to the part affected. Send this to Bell's and get it made up, and take it three times a day; and let me see you on on Saturday. Good day to you." And there would not be the smallest quiver in the hard metallic voice, or the smallest twinkle in the observant eye behind the gold-rimmed glasses, although the doctor knew that the demon Consumption, by his buffet, had raised that red spot on the sufferer's cheek, and was rapidly eating away his vitality.

But if Dr. Prater kept a strict reticence to his patients

Or

as regarded their own ailments, he was never so happy as when enlarging to them on the diseases of their fellow-sufferers, or of informing esoteric circles of the special varieties of disorder with which his practice led him to cope. "You ill, my dear sir!" he would say to some puny specimen; then, settling himself into his waistcoat after an examination, "you complain of narrow-chestedness why, my dear sir, do you know Sir Hawker de la Crache? You've a pectoral development which is perfectly surprising when contrasted with Sir Hawker's. But then he, poor man! last stage Madeira no goodwould sit up all night playing whist at Reid's hotel. Algiers no good-too much brandy, tobacco, and baccarat with French officers - nothing any good. You, my dear sir, compared to Sir Hawker-pooh, nonsense!" in any other form: 'Any such case, my dear madam? - any such case?"-turning to a large book, having previously consulted a small index-" a hundred such! Here, for instance, Lady Susan Bray, now staying at Ventnor, living entirely on asses'-milk-in some of our conditions we must live on asses'-milk-left lung quite gone, life hanging by a thread. You're a Juno, ma'am, in comparison to Lady Susan!" There was no mistake, however, about the doctor's talent; men in his own profession, who sneered at his charlatanerie of manner, allowed that he was thoroughly well versed in his subject. He was very fond of young men's society; and, with all his engagements, always found time to dine occasionally with the Guards at Windsor, with a City company or two, or with a snug set en petit comité in Temple chambers, and to visit the behind-scenes of two or three theatres, the receptions of certain great ladies, and occasionally the meetings of the Flybynights Club. To the latter he always came in a special suit of clothes on account of the impregnation of tobacco-smoke; and when coming thither he left his carriage and his address, in case he was required, at the Minerva, with orders to fetch him at once. It would never have done for some of his patients to know that he was a member of the Flybynights.- Broken to Harness.

ONGE, CHARLOTTE MARY, an English novelist; born at Otterbourne, Hampshire, August 11, 1823; died at Winchester, March 17, 1901. The daughter of W. C. Yonge, a magistrate of Hants, she early devoted herself to literature. Her books were written for the instruction and amusement of the young, and to enforce healthy morals. She was editor of the Monthly Packet, a High Church periodical. The proceeds of her best-known book, The Heir of Redclyffe (1853), were devoted to the equipment of the missionary schooner Southern Cross, for the use of Bishop Selwyn, and the profits of The Daisy Chain (£2,000) she gave toward the erection of a missionary college at Auckland, New Zealand. Among her many works are Abbey Church, or Selfcontrol and Self-conduct (1844); Scenes and Characters (1847); Langley-School (1848); Kenneth (1850); The Kings of England (1851); The Two Guardians (1852); Landmarks of History (1852-84); Heartease (1854); The Lances of Lynwood (1855); Leonard, the Lion-Heart (1856); The Christmas Mummers (1858); The Trial: More Links of the Daisy Chain (1864); The Clever Woman of the Family (1865); The Dove in the Eagle's Nest (1866); Cameos from English History (1868); The Chaplet of Pearls (1868); The Caged Lion (1870); A Parallel History of France and England (1871); Eighteen Centuries of Beginnings of Church History (1876); Love and Life (1880); Lads and Lasses of Langley (1881); Historical Ballads; Stray Pearls. Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont (1883); Langley Adventures (1884); Two Sides of the Shield (1885); A