been cheated, got noisy drunk, and fought three
of the men there with the butt-end of a billiard-
cue. Oh, he's going the whole hog, he is! How
he flashes his money, to be sure."

"Well, Thatcher," said the manager of the
bank, as the doctor alighted from his chaise,
"what can we do for you?"

"I want this cheque, Miller, for one hundred
and fifty pounds, cashed, and I want to look at
my book."

"Certainly. Edward, get Dr. Thatcher's
book from the parlour."

"I am going to the post-office, and will call
in a minute or two. Pshaw! how cold it is.
Seen my son to-day?"

"Drove by, doctor, about half an hour ago,
down Church-street."

"Always at work. That's the way. Early
bird picks up the worm."

"Thought he looked ill, sir. Works too
hard."

"Yes, it is a dog of a life, ours. One gets old
before one has leisure to enjoy what one has
earned."

The manager smiled deprecatingly, as much
as to say, "Rich people will have their joke."

The doctor came to the post-office.

"Any letters, Mrs. Johnson?"

"Yes, doctor. There's one for you."

"Hand it out."

The doctor sat in the chaise and read it. It
was from a hospital in London, a consumption
hospital, to which he annually subscribed twenty
pounds. The secretary wrote to tell him that
two years' subscriptions were due.

"Stuff about due!" growled the doctor.
"Sent Jack to pay it into their bank a month
ago. He never forgets anything."

"Here is your book," said the manager,
handing the small parchment-covered book to
the doctor as he entered the bank, where a
farmer was scooping up a salmon-coloured bag
of sovereigns.

"No, it is not entered," said the doctor, in a
startled way. "Did not my boy Jack pay in
twenty pounds the end of last month for Drummond's?
Surely? The last cheque he paid in.
I've not sent since to you for anything."

"No, Dr. Thatcher, but he called last week
for the hundred pounds for you."

"The hundred pounds?"

"Yes, didn't he, Edward?"

"Oh yes, sir, and the week before for the
fifty pounds."

"For the fifty pounds?" the doctor
stammered. "Let me see the cheques, Mr. Miller."
The doctor spoke quite calmly, but his voice
trembled. "Will you allow me to sit down for
a moment in your back parlour till this gentleman
has gone? There has been some mistake
about a subscription; a quiet minute or so
will set it right."

"Certainly, sir. Edward, show Dr. Thatcher
in and give him a chair. There, sir, are the
cheques. Edward, put on a bit of coal, the fire's
low."

The doctor, as the door closed behind the
manager, looked closely at the cheques, turned
the signatures up and down; then he rested
his head on his hands and burst into tears. The
signatures were forgeries.

"I see it all," he murmured. "Oh, that
unhappy boy! and this, I fear, is not the worst.
O Absalom, my son, my son!"

"There's something up," said the clerk to
the manager, as he took a hasty peep over the
green curtain of the glass door. "Why, good
gracious, Mr. Miller, the doctor's fainted!"

IV.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller," said the doctor,
when he had recovered, and retaken his seat
once more in the chaise; "here is no blunder,
after all. I see where the mistake lay. I have
taken all the cheques up to yesterday. Continue
the draught. Young man, be kind enough to
turn the chaise. Thank you."

The Spartan boy kept the wolf hid till it
gnawed into his heart. Dr. Thatcher had a
secret whose teeth were sharper than even
the wolf. In that half hour he had suffered the
pangs of death itself.

He drove straight to his sister's, Mrs.
Thatcher's, whose neat little cottage was about a
quarter of a mile from the town, and near the
old parish church. As the doctor's chaise drove
up, Miss Paget ran out, looking very pale and
anxious.

"Well, Letty, how's Aunt Fanny?"

"Very, very ill, dear uncle. No appetite,
very weak, no sleep."

"That won't do; and has Jack been?"

"Yes, and orders the same medicine, only
larger doses; but I'm sure—I'm sure it does not
agree with her. Do give your advice, uncle."

"I promised Jack, only two days ago, never
to interfere with his patients; but this once I
will. Send some one, Letty, to take the mare
round to the stables."

Mrs. Thatcher, the doctor's sister, was sitting
up in bed, propped with pillows. Her
handsome features were sharpened by illness, her
cheeks were sunken, her eyes pale and anxious.

"Well, Fanny, and how is it with you?"

"Bad, bad, John; perpetual pain, nausea, no
sleep, no appetite."

The doctor's face changed, a ghastly pallor
came upon his lips.

"Let me see the medicine, Letty."

Miss Paget brought it. The doctor looked
at it eagerly, then tasted it. The next moment
he had flung the bottle on the fire. A dew of
nervous excitement broke out upon his forehead.

"Uncle?"

"Brother?"

"The medicine is much too powerful for you
in this weak state. Jack is a clever fellow, but he
does not know your constitution as I do. You
must not, however, pain him by telling him you
have not taken his stuff, so I will send you some
tonic that resembles it in colour, but less violent.
This was too much for you. Jack was right—