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tions?"

"No, indeed, sir. But the nephew of the rich Mr. Avenel. Ah, one hears a great deal, you know, of rich people; it is the penalty of wealth, Mr. Avenel!"

buzz of the admiring crowd, beheld his nephew in Expectations!" repeated Richard, firing up. animated conversation with the long-cherished idol" Has the boy been talking to you of his expectaof his dreams. A fierce pang of jealousy shot through his breast. His nephew had never looked so handsome and so intelligent; in fact, poor Leonard had never before been drawn out by a woman of the world, who had learned how to make the most of what little she knew. And, as jealousy operates like a pair of bellows on incipient flames, so, at first sight of the smile which the fair widow bestowed upon Leonard, the heart of Mr. Avenel felt in a blaze.

He approached with a step less assured than usual, and, overhearing Leonard's talk, marvelled much at the boy's audacity. Mrs. M'Catchley had been speaking of Scotland and the Waverley Novels, about which Leonard knew nothing. But he knew Burns, and on Burns he grew artlessly eloquent. Burns the poet and peasant; Leonard might well be eloquent on him. Mrs. M'Catchley was amused and pleased with his freshness and naïveté, so unlike anything she had ever heard or seen, and she drew him on and on, till Leonard fell to quoting. And Richard heard, with less respect for the sentiment than might be supposed, that

Rank is but the guinea stamp,

The man 's the gowd for a' that.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Avenel. "Pretty piece of politeness to tell that to a lady like the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. You'll excuse him,

ma'am."

"Sir!" said Mrs. M'Catchley, startled, and lifting her glass. Leonard, rather confused, rose, and offered his chair to Richard, who dropped into it. The lady, without waiting for formal introduction, guessed that she saw the rich uncle.

"Such a sweet poet-Burns!" said she, dropping her glass. "And it is so refreshing to find so much youthful enthusiasm," she added, pointing her fan towards Leonard, who was receding fast among the crowd.

"Well, he is youthful, my nephew-rather green!"

"Don't say green!" said Mrs. M'Catchley. Richard blushed scarlet. He was afraid he had committed himself to some expression low and shocking. The lady resumed, Say unsophisti

cated."

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"A tarnation long word," thought Richard; but he prudently bowed, and held his tongue.

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Young men nowadays," continued Mrs. M'Catchley, resettling herself on the sofa, "affect to be so old. They don't dance, and they don't read, and they don't talk much; and a great many of them wear toupets before they are two-andtwenty!"

Richard mechanically passed his hand through his thick curls. But he was still mute; he was still ruefully chewing the cud of the epithet green What occult horrid meaning did the word convey to ears polite? Why should he not say "green ? "A very fine young man, your nephew, sir," resumed Mrs. M'Catchley.

Richard grunted.

"And seems full of talent. Not yet at the University? Will he go to Oxford or Cambridge?"

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"I have not made up my mind yet, if I shall send him to the University at all."

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A young man of his expectations!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Catchley, artfully.

Richard was very much flattered. His crest rose.

"And they say," continued Mrs. M'Catchley, dropping out her words very slowly, as she adjusted her blonde scarf, "that Mr. Avenel has resolved not to marry."

"The devil they do, ma'am !" bolted out Richard, gruffly; and then, ashamed of his lapsus linguæ, screwed up his lips firmly, and glared on the company with an eye of indignant fire.

Mrs. M'Catchley observed him over her fan. Richard turned abruptly, and she withdrew her eyes modestly, and raised the fan.

"She's a real beauty," said Richard, between his teeth.

The fan fluttered.

Five minutes afterwards, the widow and the bachelor seemed so much at their ease that Mrs. Pompley-who had been forced to leave her friend, in order to receive the Dean's lady-could scarcely believe her eyes when she returned to the sofa.

Now, it was from that evening that Mr. Richard Avenel exhibited the change of mood which I have described. And from that evening he abstained from taking Leonard with him to any of the parties in the Abbey Gardens.

CHAPTER IX.

SOME days after this memorable soirée, Colonel Pompley sat alone in his drawing-room, (which opened pleasantly on an old-fashioned garden,) absorbed in the house bills. For Colonel Pompley did not leave that domestic care to his lady-perhaps she was too grand for it. Colonel Pompley with his own sonorous voice ordered the joints, and with his own heroic hand dispensed the stores. In justice to the colonel, I must add-at whatever risk of offence to the fair sex-that there was not a house at Screwstown so well managed as the Pompleys'; none which so successfully achieved the difficult art of uniting economy with show. I should despair of conveying to you an idea of the extent to which Colonel Pompley made his income go. It was but seven hundred a year; and many a family contrive to do less upon three thousand. To be sure, the Pompleys had no children to sponge upon them. What they had they spent all on themselves. Neither, if the Pompleys never exceeded their income, did they pretend to live much within it. The two ends of the year met at Christmas-just met, and no more.

Colonel Pompley sat at his desk. He was in breast-his gray trousers fitted tight to his limbs, his well-brushed blue coat-buttoned across his and fastened under his boots with a link chain. He saved a great deal of money in straps. No one ever saw Colonel Pompley in dressing-gown and slippers. He and his house were alike in orderalways fit to be seen

From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve;

The colonel was a short compact man, inclined to be stout-with a very red face, that seemed not only shaved, but rasped. He wore his hair cropped close, except just in front, where it formed what

the hair-dresser called a feather; but it seemed a feather of iron, so stiff and so strong was it. Firmness and precision were emphatically marked on the colonel's countenance. There was a resolute strain on his features, as if he was always employed in making the two ends meet!

So he sat before his house-book, with his steel pen in his hand, and making crosses here and notes of interrogation there. 66 Mrs. M'Catchley's maid," said the colonel to himself, "must be put upon rations. The tea that she drinks! Good heavens!-tea again!"

There was a modest ring at the outer door. "Too early for a visitor!" thought the colonel. Perhaps it is the water rates."

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The neat man-servant-never seen, beyond the offices, save in grande tenue, plushed and powdered -entered, and bowed.

"A gentleman, sir, wishes to see you." "A gentleman," repeated the colonel, glancing towards the clock. "Are you sure it is a gentleman?"

The man hesitated. " Why, sir, I ben't exactly sure; but he speaks like a gentleman. He do say he comes from London to see you, sir."

A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the colonel and one of his wife's trustees touching the investment of Mrs. Pompley's fortune. It might be the trustee-nay, it must be. The trustee had talked of running down to see him.

"Let him come in," said the colonel: "and when I ring-sandwiches and sherry." "Beef, sir?" "Ham."

The colonel put aside his house-book, and wiped his pen.

In another minute the door opened, and the servant announced

"MR. DIGBY."

The colonel's face fell, and he staggered back. The door closed, and Mr. Digby stood in the middle of the room, leaning on the great writingtable for support. The poor soldier looked sicklier and shabbier, and nearer the end of all things in life and fortune, than when Lord L'Estrange had thrust the pocket-book into his hands. But still the servant showed knowledge of the world in calling him gentleman; there was no other word to apply to him.

The colonel's brow relaxed. "A very honorable sentiment, Mr. Digby."

"No; I have gone through a great deal; but you see, colonel," added the poor relation, with a faint smile," the campaign is well-nigh over, and peace is at hand."

The colonel seemed touched.

"Don't talk so, Digby-I don't like it. You are younger than I am nothing more disagreeable than these gloomy views of things. You have got enough to live upon, you say-at least so I understand you. I am very glad to hear it; and, indeed, I could not assist you, so many claims on me. So it is all very well, Digby."

"Oh, Colonel Pompley," cried the soldier, clasping his hands, and with feverish energy, "I am a suppliant, not for myself, but my child! I have but one-only one-a girl. She has been so good to me. She will cost you little. Take her when I die; promise her a shelter-a home. I ask no more. You are my nearest relative. I have no other to look to. You have no children of your own. She will be a blessing to you, as she has been all upon earth to me!"

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If Colonel Pompley's face was red in ordinary hours, no epithet sufficiently rubicund or guineous can express its color at this appeal. The man's mad," he said at last, with a tone of astonishment that almost concealed his wrath"stark mad! I take his child!-lodge and board a great, positive, hungry child! Why, sir, many and many a time have I said to Mrs. Pompley, 'Tis a mercy we have no children. We could never live in this style if we had children-never make both ends meet. Child-the most expensive, ravenous, ruinous thing in the world-a child!"

"She has been accustomed to starve," said Mr. Digby, plaintively. "Oh, colonel, let me see your wife. Her heart I can touch-she is a woman."

Unlucky father! A more untoward, unseasonable request the Fates could not have put into his lips.

Mrs. Pompley see the Digbies! Mrs. Pompley learn the condition of the colonel's grand conneotions! The colonel would never have been his own man again. At the bare idea, he felt as if he could have sunk into the earth with shame. In his alarm he made a stride to the door, with the intention of locking it. Good heavens, if Mrs. Pompley Sir," began Colonel Pompley, recovering should come in! And the man, too, had been anhimself, and with great solemnity, "I did not ex-nounced by name. Mrs. Pompley might have pect this pleasure."

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The poor visitor stared round him dizzily, and sunk into a chair, breathing hard. The colonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor relation, and buttoned up first one trousers pocket and then the other.

"I thought you were in Canada," said the colonel at last.

Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, "The climate would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned."

"You ought to have found a very good place in England, to make it worth your while to leave Canada."

"She could not have lived through another winter in Canada-the doctor said so.'

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Pooh," quoth the colonel.

Mr. Digby drew a long breath. "I would not come to you, Colonel Pompley, while you could think that I came as a beggar for myself."

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learned already that a Digby was with her husband-she might be actually dressing to receive him worthily-there was not a moment to lose. The colonel exploded. Sir, I wonder at your impudence. See Mrs. Pompley! Hush, sir, hush!-hold your tongue. I have disowned your connection. I will not have my wife-a woman, sir, of the first family-disgraced by it. Yes; you need not fire up. John Pompley is not a man to be bullied in his own house. I say disgraced. Did not you run into debt, and spend your fortune? Did not you marry a low creature-a vulgariana tradesman's daughter?-and your poor father such a respectable man-a beneficed clergyman! Did not you sell your commission? Heaven knows what became of the money! Did not you turn (I shudder to say it) a common stage-player, sir? And then, when you were on your last legs, did I not give you £200 out of my own purse to go to Canada? And now here you are again-and ask

me, with a coolness that-that takes away my | pathetic appeal to relations; relations have chilbreath-takes away-my breath, sir-to provide dren of their own; small help given grudgingly, for the child you have thought proper to have ;-a child whose connections on the mother's side are of the most abject and discreditable condition. Leave my house, leave it-good heavens, sir, not that way!-this." And the colonel opened the glass door that led into the garden. "I will let you out this way. If Mrs. Pompley should see you!" And with that thought the colonel absolutely hooked his arm into his poor relation's and hurried him into the garden.

Mr. Digby said not a word, but he struggled ineffectually to escape from the colonel's arm; and his color went and came, came and went, with a quickness that showed that in those shrunken veins there were still some drops of a soldier's blood.

But the colonel had now reached a little posterndoor in the garden wall. He opened the latch, and thrust out his poor cousin. Then looking down the lane, which was long, straight, and narrow, and seeing it was quite solitary, his eye fell upon the forlorn man, and remorse shot through his heart. For a moment the hardest of all kinds of avarice, that of the genteel, relaxed its gripe. For a moment the most intolerant of all forms of pride, that which is based upon false pretences, hushed its voice, and the colonel hastily drew out his purse. "There," said he, "that is all I can do for you. Do leave the town as quick as you can, and don't mention your name to any one. Your father was such a respectable man-beneficed clergyman!"

"And paid for your commission, Mr. Pompley. My name-I am not ashamed of it. But do not fear I shall claim your relationship. No; I am ashamed of you!"

The poor cousin put aside the purse, still stretched towards him, with a scornful hand, and walked firmly down the lane.

Colonel Pompley stood irresolute. At that moment a window in his house was thrown open. He heard the noise, turned round, and saw his wife looking out.

Colonel Pompley sneaked back through the shrubbery, hiding himself amongst the trees.

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CHAPTER X.

"ILL-LUCK is a bêtise," said the great Cardinal Richelieu; and on the long run, I fear, his eminence was right. If you could drop Dick Avenel and Mr. Digby in the middle of Oxford StreetDick in a fustian jacket, Digby in a suit of superfine-Dick with five shillings in his pocket, Digby with a thousand pounds-and if, at the end of ten years, you looked up your two men, Dick would be on his road to a fortune, Digby-what we have seen him! Yet Digby had no vice; he did not drink, nor gamble. What was he, then? Helpless. He had been an only son-a spoiled child brought up as a gentleman; that is, as a man who was not expected to be able to turn his hand to anything. He entered, as we have seen, a very expensive regiment, wherein he found himself, at his father's death, with £4000, and the incapacity to say "No." Not naturally extravagant, but without an idea of the value of money—the easiest, gentlest, best-tempered man whom example ever ed astray. This part of his career comprised a very common history-the poor man living on equal terms with the rich. Debt; recourse to usurers; bills signed sometimes for others, renewed at twenty per cent; the £4000 melted like snow; CCCLXXIII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXX. 6

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eked out by much advice, and coupled with conditions. Amongst the conditions there was a very proper and prudent one-exchange into a less expensive regiment. Exchange effected; peace; obscure country quarters; ennui, flute-playing, and idleness. Mr. Digby had no resources on a rainy day-except flute-playing; pretty girl of inferior rank; all the officers after her; Digby smitten; pretty girl very virtuous; Digby forms honorable intentions; excellent sentiments; imprudent marriage. Digby falls in life; colonel's lady will not associate with Mrs. Digby; Digby cut by his whole kith and kin; many disagreeable circumstances in regimental life; Digby sells out; love in a cottage; execution in ditto. Digby had been much applauded as an amateur actor; thinks of the stage; genteel comedy-a gentlemanlike profession. Tries in a provincial town, under another name; unhappily succeeds; life of an actor; hand-to-mouth life; illness; chest affected; Digby's voice becomes hoarse and feeble; not aware of it; attributes failing success to ignorant provincial public; appears in London; is hissed; returns to provinces; sinks into very small parts; prison; despair; wife dies; appeal again to relations; a subscription made to get rid of him; send him out of the country; place in Canada-superintendent to an estate, £150 a year; pursued by ill-luck; never before fit for business, not fit now; honest as the day, but keeps slovenly accounts; child cannot bear the winter of Canada; Digby wrapped up in the child; returns home; mysterious life for two years; child patient, thoughtful, loving; has learned to work; manages for father; often supports him; constitution rapidly breaking; thought of what will become of his child-worst disease of all. Poor Digby!-Never did a base, cruel, unkind thing in his life; and here he is, walking down the lane from Colonel Pompley's house! Now, if Digby had but learned a little of the world's cunning, I think he would have succeeded even with Colonel Pompley. Had he spent the £100 received from Lord L'Estrange with a view to effect-had he bestowed a fitting wardrobe on himself and his pretty Helen; had he stopped at the last stage, taken thence a smart chaise and pair, and presented himself at Colonel Pompley's in a way that would not have discredited the colonel's connection, and then, instead of praying for home and shelter, asked the colonel to become guardian to his child in case of his death, I have a strong notion that the colonel, in spite of his avarice, would have stretched both ends so as to take in Helen Digby. But our poor friend had no such arts. Indeed, of the £100 he had already very little left, for before leaving town he had committed what Sheridan considered the extreme of extravagance-frittered away his money in paying his debts; and as for dressing up Helen and himself-if that thought had ever occurred to him, he would have rejected it as foolish. He would have thought that the more he showed his poverty, the more he would be pitied-the worst mistake a poor cousin can commit. According to Theophrastus, the partridge of Paphlagonia has two hearts; so have most men; it is the common mistake of the unlucky to knock at the wrong one.

CHAPTER XI.

MR. DIGBY entered the room of the inn in which he had left Ilelen. She was seated by the window,

and looking out wistfully on the narrow street, per- Helen turned her face full towards the passenger haps at the children at play. There had never with a grateful expression, visible even in the dim been a playtime for Helen Digby. She sprang light. forward as her father came in. His coming was her holiday.

"We must go back to London," said Mr. Digby, sinking helplessly on the chair. Then, with his sort of sickly smile-for he was bland even to his child" Will you kindly inquire when the first coach leaves?"

All the active cares of their careful life devolved upon that quiet child. She kissed her father, placed before him a cough mixture which he had brought from London, and went out silently to make the necessary inquiries, and prepare for the journey back.

At eight o'clock the father and child were seated in the night-coach, with one other passenger-a man muffled up to the chin. After the first mile, the man let down one of the windows. Though it was summer, the air was chill and raw. Digby shivered and coughed.

Helen placed her hand on the window, and, leaning towards the passenger, whispered softly.

"You are very kind, sir," said poor Mr. Digby; "I am ashamed to"-his cough choked the rest of the sentence.

The passenger, who was a plethoric, sanguineous man, felt as if he were stifling. But he took off his wrappers, and resigned the oxygen like a hero.

Presently he drew nearer to the sufferer, and laid hand on his wrist.

"You are feverish, I fear. I am a medical man. St!-one-two. Cott! you should not travel; you are not fit for it!"

Mr. Digby shook his head; he was too feeble to reply.

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The passenger thrust his hand into his coatpocket, and drew out what seemed a cigar-case, but what, in fact, was a leathern repertory, containing a variety of minute phials. From one of these phials he extracted two tiny globules. "There, said he; “open your mouth-put those on the tip of your tongue. They will lower the pulse-check "Eh!" said the passenger, "draw up the the fever. Be better presently-but should not windows? You have got your own window; this travel-want rest-you should be in bed. Aconite! is mine. Oxygen, young lady," he added solemnly,-Henbane!-hum! Your papa is of fair comoxygen is the breath of life. Cott, child!" he plexion-a timid character, I should say—a horror continued, with suppressed choler, and a Welsh of work, perhaps. Eh, child?” pronunciation, "cott! let us breathe and live." Helen was frightened, and recoiled.

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"Sir!" faltered Helen, astonished and alarmed -Was the man a conjurer?

"A case for Phosphor!" cried the passenger; "that fool Browne would have said arsenic. Don't be persuaded to take arsenic."

"Arsenic, sir?" echoed the mild Digby. "No; however unfortunate a man may be, I think, sir, that suicide is-tempting, perhaps, but highly criminal."

"Suicide," said the passenger tranquilly-" suiYou have no symptom of that

"Cold-ugh! I do believe the English are the stuffiest people! Look at their four-post beds!cide is my hobby! all the curtains drawn, shutters closed, board before kind, you say?" the chimney-not a house with a ventilator! Cold "Good heavens! -ugh!"

The window next Mr. Digby did not fit well into its frame.

"There is a sad draught," said the invalid. Helen instantly occupied herself in stopping up the chinks of the window with her handkerchief. Mr. Digby glanced ruefully at the other window. The look, which was very eloquent, aroused yet more the traveller's spleen.

"Pleasant!" said he. "Cott! I suppose you will ask me to go outside next! But people who travel in a coach should know the law of a coach. I don't interfere with your window; you have no business to interfere with mine."

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No, my dear; the gentleman is in his right," said Mr. Digby; and, bowing with his wonted suavity, he added, "excuse her, sir. She thinks a great deal too much of me."

The passenger said nothing, and Helen nestled closer to her father, and strove to screen him from the air.

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No, sir."

If ever you feel violently impelled to drown yourself, take pulsatilla. But if you feel a preference towards blowing out your brains, accompanied with weight in the limbs, loss of appetite, dry cough and had corns-sulphuret of antimony. Don't forget."

Though poor Mr. Digby confusedly thought that the gentleman was out of his mind, yet he tried politely to say "that he was much obliged, and would be sure to remember;" but his tongue failed him, and his own ideas grew perplexed. His head fell back heavily, and he sank into a silence which seemed that of sleep.

The traveller looked hard at Helen, as she gently drew her father's head on her shoulder, and there pillowed it with a tenderness which was more that of mother than child.

"Moral affections-soft-compassionate!-a child, and would go well with-pulsatilla."

good

Helen held up her finger, and glanced from her father to the traveller, and then to her father again.

Certainly-pulsatilla!" muttered the homeop athist; and, ensconcing himself in his own corner, he also sought to sleep. But, after vain efforts, accompanied by restless gestures and movements, he suddenly started up, and again extracted his phial-book.

The passenger moved uneasily. "Well," said he, with a sort of snort, "air is air, and right is "What the deuce are they to me?" he muttered. right; but here goes"-and he hastily drew up the" Morbid sensibility of character-coffee? window. -accompanied by vivacity and violence--Nur!"

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Helen looked up.

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"But I won't," he added resolutely; and this complained more." time he fell fairly asleep.

CHAPTER XII.

THE coach stopped at eleven o'clock, to allow the passengers to sup. The homeopathist woke up, got out, gave himself a shake, and inhaled the fresh air into his vigorous lungs with an evident sensation of delight. He then turned and looked into the coach

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Let your father get out, my dear," said he, with a tone more gentle than usual. "I should like to see him in-doors-perhaps I can do him good."

But what was Helen's terror when she found that her father did not stir! He was in a deep swoon, and still quite insensible when they lifted hi from the carriage. When he recovered his senses, his cough returned, and the effort brought up blood.

It was impossible for him to proceed further. The homeopathist assisted to undress and put him into bed. And, having administered another of his mysterious globules, he inquired of the landlady how far it was to the nearest doctor-for the inn stood by itself in a small hamlet. There was the parish apothecary three miles off. But, on hearing that the gentlefolks employed Dr. Dosewell, and it was a good seven miles to his house, the homoopathist fetched a deep breath. The coach only stopped a quarter of an hour.

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"Well, send for the doctor to be here at seven. That leaves us at least some hours free from allopathy and murder," grunted the disciple of Hahnemann, as he entered the room.

Whether it was the globule that the homeopathist had administered, or the effect of nature, aided by repose, that checked the effusion of blood, and restored some temporary strength to the poor sufferer, is more than it becomes one not of the faculty to opine. But certainly Mr. Digby seemed better, and he gradually fell into a profound sleep, but not till the doctor had put his ear to his chest, tapped it with his hand, and asked several questions; after which the homoeopathist retired into a corner of the room, and, leaning his face on his hand, seemed to meditate. From his thoughts he was disturbed by a gentle touch. Helen was kneeling at his feet.

"Is he very ill-very?" said she; and her fond wistful eyes were fixed on the physician's with all the earnestness of despair.

"Your father is very ill," replied the doctor,

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The homeopathist rose and took two strides across the room, then he paused by the bed, and listened to the breathing of the sleeping man.

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My nameis Morgan," said the homeopathist"I am a physician. I leave in your hands a patient whom, I fear, neither I nor you can restore. Come and look at him."

The two doctors went into the sick-room. Mr. Digby was very feeble, but he had recovered his consciousness, and inclined his head courteously.

"I am sorry to cause so much trouble," said he. The homeopathist drew away Helen; the allopathist seated himself by the bedside and put his questions, felt the pulse, sounded the lungs, and looked at the tongue of the patient. Helen's eye was fixed on the strange doctor, and her color rose, and her eye sparkled when he got up cheerfully, and said, in a pleasant voice, "You may have a little

tea.

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"Tea!" growled the homeopathist--" barbarian!"

"He is better, then, sir?" said Helen, creeping to the allopathist.

"Oh, yes, my dear-certainly; and we shall do very well, I hope.'

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The two doctors then withdrew.

"Last about a week!" said Dr. Dosewell, smiling pleasantly and showing a very white set of teeth.

"I should have said a month; but our systems are different," replied Dr. Morgan drily.

Dr. Dosewell, (courteously.)—"We country doctors bow to our metropolitan superiors; what would you advise? You would venture, perhaps, the experiment of bleeding."

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