Her reply was, "Gang awa', Jock, and
bring him."

Jock, a white-headed boy, who, under
pretence of stirring up some bay salt in a
basin of water for the laving of this
unfortunate ankle, had greatly enjoyed himself
for the last ten minutes in splashing the
carpet, set off promptly. A very few
minutes had elapsed when he showed the Doctor
in, by tumbling against the door before him
and bursting it open with his head.

"Gently, Jock, gently," said the doctor as
he advanced with a quiet step. "Gentlemen,
a good evening. I am sorry that my presence
is required here. A slight accident, I hope? A
slip and a fall? Yes, yes, yes. Carrock, indeed?
Hah! Does that pain you, sir?  No doubt,
it does. It is the great connecting ligament
here, you see, that has been badly strained.
Time and rest, sir! They are often the
recipe in greater cases," with a slight sigh, "and
often the recipe in small. I can send a lotion
to relieve you, but we must leave the cure to
time and rest."

This he said, holding Idle's foot on his
knee between his two hands, as he sat over
against him. He had touched it tenderly
and skilfully in explanation of what he said,
and, when his careful examination was
completed, softly returned it to its former
horizontal position on a chair.

He spoke with a little irresolution whenever
he began, but afterwards fluently. He was a
tall, thin, large-boned, old gentleman, with an
appearance at first sight of being hard-
featured; but, at a second glance, the mild
expression of his face and some particular
touches of sweetness and patience about his
mouth, corrected this impression and assigned
his long professional rides, by day and night,
in the bleak hill-weather, as the true cause of
that appearance. He stooped very little,
though past seventy and very grey. His
dress was more like that of a clergyman than
a country doctor, being a plain black suit,
and a plain white neck-kerchief tied behind
like a band. His black was the worse for
wear, and there were darns in his coat, and
his linen was a little frayed at the hems and
edges. He might have been poor—it was
likely enough in that out-of-the-way spot-
or he might have been a little self-forgetful
and eccentric. Anyone could have seen
directly, that he had neither wife nor child at
home. He had a scholarly air with him, and
that kind of considerate humanity towards
others which claimed a gentle consideration
for himself. Mr. Goodchild made this study
of him while he was examining the limb, and
as he laid it down, Mr. Goodchild wishes to
add that he considers it a very good likeness.

It came out in the course of a little
conversation, that Doctor Speddie was
acquainted with some friends of Thomas Idle's
and had, when a young man, passed some
years in Thomas Idle's birthplace on the
other side of England. Certain idle labours,
the fruit of Mr. Goodchild's apprenticeship,
also happened to be well known to him. The
lazy travellers were thus placed on a more
intimate footing with the Doctor than the casual
circumstances of the meeting would of
themselves have established; and when Doctor
Speddie rose to go home, remarking that he
would send his assistant with the lotion,
Francis Goodchild said that was unnecessary
, for, by the Doctor's leave, he would
accompany him, and bring it back. (Having done
nothing to fatigue himself for a full quarter
of an hour, Francis began to fear that he was
not in a state of idleness.)

Doctor Speddie politely assented to the
proposition of Francis Goodchild, "as it would
give him the pleasure of enjoying a few more
minutes of Mr. Goodchild's society than he
could otherwise have hoped for," and they
went out together into the village street.
The rain had nearly ceased, the clouds had
broken before a cool wind from the north-
east, and stars were shining from the peaceful
heights beyond them.

Doctor Speddie's house was the last house
in the place. Beyond it, lay the moor, all
dark and lonesome. The wind moaned in a
low, dull, shivering manner round the little
garden, like a houseless creature that knew
the winter was coming. It was exceedingly
wild and solitary. "Roses," said the Doctor,
when Goodchild touched some wet
leaves overhanging the stone porch; "but
they get cut to pieces."

The Doctor opened the door with a key he
carried, and led the way into a low but pretty
ample hall with rooms on either side. The
door of one of these stood open, and the Doctor
entered it, with a word of welcome to his guest.
It, too, was a low room, half surgery
and half parlor, with shelves of books and
bottles against the walls, which were of a
very dark hue. There was a fire in the grate,
the night being damp and chill. Leaning
against the chimney-piece looking down into
it, stood the Doctor's Assistant.

A man of a most remarkable appearance.
Much older than Mr. Goodchild had expected,
for he was at least two-and-fifty; but, that was
nothing. What was startling in him was
his remarkable paleness. His large black
eyes, his sunken cheeks, his long and heavy
iron-grey hair, his wasted hands, and even,
the attenuation of his figure, were at first
forgotten in his extraordinary pallor. There
was no vestige of color in the man. When he
turned his face, Francis Goodchild started
as if a stone figure had looked round at
him.

"Mr. Lorn," said the Doctor. " Mr. Goodchild."

The Assistant, in a distraught way—as if
he had forgotten something—as if he had
forgotten everything, even to his own name
and himself—acknowledged the visitor's
presence, and stepped further back into the
shadow of the wall behind him. But, he was