himself encountered
by an intolerably filthy smell.

The market was not out of the direct way to Lincoln's Inn Fields. He
fled from the smell to the flowery and fruity perfumes of Covent
Garden, and completed the disinfecting process by means of a basket of
strawberries.

Why did a poor ragged little girl, carrying a big baby, look with such
longing eyes at the delicious fruit, that, as a kind-hearted man, he had
no alternative but to make her a present of the strawberries? Why did
two dirty boyfriends of hers appear immediately afterwards with news of
Punch in a neighbouring street, and lead the little girl away with them?
Why did these two new circumstances inspire him with a fear that the
boys might take the strawberries away from the poor child, burdened
as she was with a baby almost as big as herself? When we suffer from
overwrought nerves we are easily disturbed by small misgivings. The idle
man of wearied mind followed the friends of the street drama to see what
happened, forgetful of the College of Surgeons, and finding a new fund
of amusement in himself.

Arrived in the neighbouring street, he discovered that the Punch
performance had come to an end--like some other dramatic performances
of higher pretensions--for want of a paying audience. He waited at a
certain distance, watching the children. His doubts had done them an
injustice. The boys only said, "Give us a taste." And the liberal little
girl rewarded their good conduct. An equitable and friendly division of
the strawberries was made in a quiet corner.

Where--always excepting the case of a miser or a millionaire--is the man
to be found who could have returned to the pursuit of his own affairs,
under these circumstances, without encouraging the practice of the
social virtues by a present of a few pennies? Ovid was not that man.

Putting back in his breast-pocket the bag in which he was accustomed to
carry small coins for small charities, his hand touched something which
felt like the envelope of a letter. He took it out--looked at it with
an expression of annoyance and surprise--and once more turned aside from
the direct way to Lincoln's Inn Fields.

The envelope contained his last prescription. Having occasion to consult
the "Pharmacopoeia," he had written it at home, and had promised to send
it to the patient immediately. In the absorbing interest of making
his preparations for leaving England, it had remained forgotten in his
pocket for nearly