was Queen's physician, though he had only a
small fraction of the royal practice, it being
shared among some six other of his brethren.
A cold night, with cold air coming in through
the crevices of the ill-closing doors and windows,
and the fairy figure inside shivered sometimes
a good deal, still she was warm in heart, and
excited, and that small face, as the cab turned a
corner sharply, was flashed on by the street
lamps, and showed an anxious and eager air,
until at last it drew up at a yellow house,
where it seemed as though a funeral was about
to take place, and one of the doctor's own
victims were about being carried out.

Heavy coaches, with solemn horses and
drivers buried in capes, seemed to be bivouacing
in the street; only they appeared to be
mourning coaches with lights, and it was to be
an illuminated funeral. Solemn footmen, who
seemed yet larger in stature from the darkness,
hung about the steps. These gentlemen set
down the little lady, who tripped courageously
from the cab and went up the steps, as the
young lady who was to superintend the "Hice."
It was the same "gentleman" who had opened
the door to the captain that opened the door
now to her. He had a large experience of
human nature; drawn from the human nature
that came between two and four—the doctor's
hours; and saw at a glance that she was a good
deal above "Hice." When she told him what
she wanted, he shook his head, almost laughed.
Then the soft influence of the captain's half-
crown, still down in the plush regions, seemed
to bring back quiet and subdued tones. "Really
it can't be done, miss. Sir Duncan 'ud pack me
off in the morning. There's great company,
there, from the palace," he added, with mystery.
"Better come in the morning, miss; first thing."

She was well in the hall. She had found a
new courage that made her do things that
surprised herself, from the force of her absorbing
passion. At this moment came a burst, and a
roar of confused and hilarious voices rushing
out. The "gentlemen" were going up; and the
alarmed servant almost pushed her aside out of
sight, and then hurried away himself.

The noisy procession trailed up in a kind of
affectionate order, for two, and sometimes three,
seemed interlaced together in a "winey"
way, and a tall, thin gentleman, with a flat
back to his head, and a high collar to blue
coat and gilt buttons, broke from one of these
combinations, and, to Alice's alarm, came
down again towards the front parlour to fetch
something out of his coat. She was shrinking
behind the door, and a clarety aroma foretold
that he was coming. She could hardly
get out of the way without showing herself to
the others, and, in great affright, knew not what
to do, when the tall gentleman started back
with a loud "God bless my soul!"

She knew him perfectly, though he did not
know her, and, with a confidence almost childish,
she ran to him and said: "Oh, sir! Mr. Tilney,
you can help us here; and——"

"Tilney—my name! God bless me again."

"Mr. Tillotson, a friend of yours," she said,
"is ill, dying. They wish to have this great
doctor, and have sent me. A word from you
and he will come."

"Tillotson dying, and I never heard!
Wonderful. Are you sure, my child?" he said, with
as much concern as was consistent with a
pleasant saturation of cheerful claret.

"Oh yes, sir," she said, "and we are losing
time. If you would only ask the great doctor."

"I'll do it; leave it all to me. Dear me,
poor Tillotson! And here we are merry-making
in there, over real '54 claret. Leave it all to
me." And he hurried off.

The way in which he imparted his news to
his host was not unskilful. He came in
mysteriously.

"My dear Dennison," he said, "I don't like
this—pretty girl waiting below—private interview.
Seriously, though, a dear, amiable, dying,
poor devil, without a friend in the world. Only
think! that has endeared every single creature on
the face of God's earth to him by simple
unostentatious charity—simple unostentatious charity!
To think of that man lying on his bed of death,
and without a mother's son that cares tuppence
for him. There's what we come to, Sir Duncan
—the great, the pious, and the good—and
leave not a rack behind!"

Not conscious of the extraordinary contradictions
in this statement, Mr. Tilney led Sir Duncan
down. Sir Duncan was an elderly man and
an old beau, and was not at all displeased at the
imputation of the visit from the "pretty girl." A
portly gentleman, all rich pink and staring white
(pink in his face, white in his waistcoat), seemed
to come out of a cloud before her. She threw
back a little hood she wore, told her story eagerly,
and came up very satisfactorily to the description
Mr. Tilney had given of her.

"What do you want now, my dear?" said the
Queen's physician. "You see I have got friends."

"Oh, sir, I know that, and I don't know what
you will think of me. But he is ill—is dying,
perhaps."

"Well, my dear, there are a good many dying
about us here; but if we were to take to leaving
our dinners for them, we'd be soon dying
ourselves, my dear."

He was all moist with good humour, this
Queen's physician, under the influence of the
famous "bin."

"Ah, sir, if you would be so kind, just for a
moment, as uncle Diamond says—a mere touch
of your little finger would do—a dreadful
nervous fever——"

Through all the claret this favourite subject,
and the implied compliment to his reputation,
came. Nervous fever was his weak point.
Wonderfully accomplished as he was in that
department, he yet needed a few little touches.

"Is it far from here?" he asked, getting his
hat.

"Then you'll come?" said she, joyfully.
"Oh, how kind—how good of you. He is
saved!"

He looked at her a moment through the pink