'I don't know how they feel, sir,' said Hulda laughing. 'Don't laugh,' said the doctor-that will never do. Not sick yet, Miss Rosalie? I had strong hopes you would be by this time. She looks like an oyster, don't she, Miss

Tom Thumb ?"

'No indeed!' said Hulda, quite forgetting her own name in the one bestowed on her sister; 'not a bit !'

6

'You think not?' said the doctor. Well I could swear there had been pearls in the vicinity-'A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears.' Who's been eating honey?' 'O Rosalie had it for her breakfast,' said Hulda.

'Hum'-said the doctor-'what have you had for yours? Eaten a whole beefsteak, eh?"

'May I have some beefsteak?' said Hulda.

'Why no,' said Doctor Buffem, 'I should think not. Wait a day or two, Miss Rosalie, and then give her beefsteak, and a little antimony, a soda biscuit, a cup of chickenbroth, a buckwheat cake, a little salts or magnesia or castor oil-whichever she likes best-an oyster, a clam, a cup of tea; keep the room at 70°, and the sunlight out of doors, and then read Cowper.'

As the doctor stamped out of the room, Rosalie sat down by Hulda, and putting her arms round her laid her own head on the pillow, with a feeling of thankfulness that was too weary to do aught but rest. And rest fell like the dew upon sun-touched flowers. But before six quiet minutes had ticked away, the door opened again to admit Martha Jumps.

'Here's a to-do!' she said. 'Here's been Mrs. Arnet secluding herself down stairs, to spring upon the doctor as he come down, for to find out whether she could see you with safety, as she says. And the doctor gave it to her well. He said there wasn't no danger for nobody but you; and he didn't think as it was quite safe, lookin' at it in that light, but he guessed you could stand it, he said. So now

the sooner the quicker, Miss Rosalie. She smells dreadful strong of pickles.'

With this forewarning Rosalie felt no surprise that her visiter's salutation kept at the safe distance of a somewhat warding-off bow of the head; and as she herself did not feel impelled to advance nearer, they took chairs at opposite sides of the fire.

'Do you consider Hulda to be out of danger?' began Mrs. Arnet-who looked very much like a butterfly deprived of its moral expression.

'The doctor so considers her,' said a sweet voice from the other side of the fireplace.

'Well, my dear, he is quite right in endeavouring to keep up your spirits, but at the same time I must tell you that amendments are precarious things. Mrs. Forsyth lost a child with scarlet fever only last week, and she had been supposed to be out of danger for several days. It is a shocking disease.' And Mrs. Arnet made free use of her aromatic vinegar, while Rosalie's heart sought better help.

'When is Marion coming home?' she inquired presently. 'Soon,' said Mrs. Arnet. 'I have considered it quite a providential thing that she should be away just now, for I am sure nothing on earth would have kept her from coming to see you.'

Rosalie felt sure of it, too.

She is so very imprudent,' pursued Mrs. Arnet. 'I believe she would just as soon as not sit up nights with anybody that had any disease. And if I remonstrated, she would probably tell me that she was safer there than doing nothing at home. For my part, I think one owes something to one's family.'

"And nothing to the family of one's adopted brother,' thought Rosalie. But she checked the thought, and answered quietly that family duties could hardly be overrated.

C

Which reminds me that I am keeping you from yours,' said the lady. How is Thornton? He never comes to see us now, but I cannot blame him. Give him my best love, my dear.' And Mrs. Arnet's eyes sought her handkerchief, and her handkerchief sought her eyes,—but that was probably the fault of the aromatic vinegar. And too affected for more words, the lady bent her head graciously, and left the room, giving Rosalie a wide berth as she went. In another minute Rosalie was up stairs. There sat Thornton, reading the newspaper by the side of the sleeping Hulda.

It is an extraordinary thing to see me, isn't it?' said he, in answer to Rosalie's first look of pleasant surprise. 'But I thought you had gone out?'

'One must go out in order to come in,' said Thornton. "If you will promise to come down to dinner to-day, and let me order it when I like, I will come home.'

There needed no answer but what the eyes gave him. "You look sorrowful, Alie,' said her brother. 'What has that woman been saying to you?'

'She left her best love for you,' said Rosalie.

Thornton's lip curled with no attempt at disguisement. 'I hope she did not come on purpose to bring it,' he said. 'If her love were in the market, the report would be, 'Supply light, and the market dull.''

She says,' continued Rosalie, 'that if Marion had been at home nothing could have kept her from coming here.' Thornton's eye flashed, but he only said, 'Of course.' His sister looked at him, and then at the fire, and then at him again.

'Oh Thornton! will you never give that one little promise? for her sake-for mine?'

He answered, 'Never!' and went.

I cannot like the Quakers (as Desdemona would say) "to live with them." I am all over sophisticated-with humours, fancies, craving hourly sympathy. I must have books, pictures, theatres, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambiguities, and a thousand whim-whams which their simpler taste can do without.-CHARLES LAMB.

THE doctor entered his gig and drove swiftly up Broadway, until the sound of its paving stones gave place to the regular beat of his horse's feet upon the frozen ground. Swiftly on-past houses and stores, the main body of the city, and then the miserable advanced posts of its outskirt buildings. For the most part the doctor took a vista-like view between the two brown ears of his horse; but now and then his wig made a half revolution towards the one adventurous row of houses that marked the south side of Walker Street, or when the shouts of the skaters on the great pond at the corner of Canal suggested various ideas that were pleasant only in a professional point of view. But every boy there skimmed over the smooth ice in utter defiance of the doctor, his skill, and his wig; and his good horse Hippocrates, unconscious that the weight he carried bes hind him was in any part made up of learning, left pond and skaters in the far distance, and trotted nimbly on through the region of market gardens, orchards, and country seats.

As near as might be to one of these the doctor checked his horse,- —or I should rather say, as near as he chose; for though the iron gate was too far from the dwelling to let even its closing clang be heard, the many tracks on the road beyond shewed that few vehicles stopped where the gig had done. But the doctor preferred walking. The long ride had made him well acquainted with the state of the

atmosphere, and Hippocrates was merrier than he when they reached the gate. So leaving the boy in the red comforter to do the best he could under the circumstances, Dr. Buffem swung to the gate, and strode away through an avenue of tall trees to the house. In summer they would have screened him from both sun and wind, but now the leafless branches only mocked him with the slight shadows they cast; and the pitiless breath of winter swept whistling through, until every twig shook and shivered in its power. The fallen leaves stuck crisp and frozen to the ground; and if there were any at large they had retreated into corners, and there lay huddled together.

Dr. Buffem pursued his walk and the wind pursued him, the doctor in extreme dissatisfaction at the pinched face of nature. His own was not suffering in the same way, for not even the wind could get hold of such cheeks; but still it was great presumption for the wind to try: and the curiosity which would fain have made itself acquainted with the lining of his coat was no less unwarrantable. And though the sunshine was by no means so inquisitive, the doctor made up his mind that too much reserve was just as bad as too little. So he tramped along, pounding the frozen ridges with his heavy boots, and shaking himself from time to time to make sure that the enemy had carried nothing but the outworks. Even the nicely swept porch, and the roses that were trimmed and trained beyond the wind's power, had not one approving look. Dr. Buffem made for the knocker; and after a succession of raps that might have answered for half the Peerage, he gave an echo to the same upon the porch floor, while his eyes sought Hippocrates in the distance.

The knocks were immediately successful, but the doctor's back took no note thereof.

'The door stands open, friend Buffem,' said a quiet voice. Does thee require aught? The wind is cold.'