MY BROTHER'S KEEPER.

CHAPTER I.

When I fell sick, an' very sick,
An' very sick, just like to dee,

A gentleman o' good account,

He cam' on purpose to visit me.-Old Ballad.

Ir was a blustering December day,-no snow to lay the dust or to allay the cold with its bright reflections; and Winter himself seemed shivering, despoiled of his ermine cloak.

In that very spirit in which some people seek out the worst side of human nature, the wind careered about,picked up all the dust and straws it could find, and showered them upon the heads of innocent and well dressed people. Not exclusively, to be sure, the wind was impartial in its bestowings; but if mischief may be measured by the trouble it gives, and the effects it leaves behind it, then did “the upper ten" get more than their share that day. It mattered little to the chimney-sweeps that their caps were stuck with dry leaves, and their brown blankets flung about in every fantastical way—à la Don and à la Boreas,—the carters had no veils to blow off; and if now and then a rowdy's hat flew into the middle of the street, nobody pitied him, and the hat was none the worse. But the ladies who fought the wind at every corner, and came upon an ambush of full grown zephyrs in most unexpected places, found the enemy's reinforcements to be far beyond their own; while hair was frizzed after every fashion not approved; the colour of dark hats became doubtful; and if white ones ever

looked white again, it was only because in town one takes a medium standard of purity.

In the midst of it all the sky was sometimes quite clear, and in the sunshine the driver of some incoming stage loomed out from his high station, and hackney-coachmen became visible. Then with the next gust the clouds rushed on, as white and almost as light as snowflakes,— drifting, meeting, covering the blue, and causing an instant fall in the thermometer.

Through the throng of men and things a gig made its way, unmolested but not unheeded. Everybody looks at a doctor's gig, though everybody has seen one every day of his life, everybody looks and wonders with a strange sort of interest. And there is always the same thing to be seen. On the one seat a remarkably comfortable-looking gentleman, in his multitude of greatcoats and wrappers (no doctor ever looked anything but comfortable); while the other seat contains with great ease a comparatively thin individual, hardly a sketch of the doctor, and usually habited in a cap, mittens, and a red worsted comforter. He enjoys moreover a share of the boot.

And it is no wonder that everybody looks; for there is a strange meeting of life and death in the air of that gig,its errand and itself so widely different!

The house towards which this one went had been already visited by the wind many times in the course of the day; and there it had demanded admittance as noisily as at any other house in the whole street. But of late the wind had grown respectful; and though just at the time when the doctor drove up Broadway, it made one desperate dash at the third story windows, piling dry leaves and dust on every sash,-something it saw there seemed to calm its mood ;the wind not only went down sighing, but took the dry leaves with it.

THE DOCTOR'S VISIT.

429

CHAPTER II.

'I feel it not.'-' Then take it every hour.'

'It makes me worse.'-'Why then it shows its power.'

CRABBE.

• THE doctor's come, Miss Rosalie,' said a woman, open

ing the door of that very third story room.

• Been spry,

aint he? I shouldn't wonder if his horse was somethin'

more than common.

done with him?'

But he's come, anyway. What's to be

'Show him up here, Martha.'

And as the door closed, the young lady's eyes came back to the bed by which she sat.

A child lay there, in that drowsiness which is of fever, not of sleep; to which the hot cheek and uneasy posture alike bore witness. She was not undressed, for the arm that lay above her head displayed a short merino sleeve at the shoulder; and at a very small distance down the bed, one little shoe of childish cut moved restlessly from under the shawl fringe that half covered it. With what quick and fluttering action the fringe about her throat was stirred, the watcher noticed painfully; and softly drew it away, and was rewarded by the half unclosed eyes and the lips that met to thank her.

'You have been asleep,' Rosalie said, resting her own upon them.

'I don't know,' said the child dreamily. 'Who's that coming up-stairs?'

'Doctor Buffem.' And even as she spoke, a longcontinued and portentous creaking of boots came to a sudden stop at the door,-Doctor Buffem having paused for breath and admittance. The last was the easiest obtained.

'What the mischief! Miss Rosalie,' he said, with some impatience. Why don't you emigrate to the stars at once?