anuscript, "the discoveries of this great physician shall benefit
humanity! And my debt to him shall be acknowledged, with the admiration
and the devotion that I truly feel!"

"In a book?" asked Mr. Gallilee.

"In a book that is now being printed. You will see it before the New
Year."

Finding nothing to amuse her in the sitting-room, Zo had tried the
bedroom next. She now returned to Ovid, dragging after her a long white
staff that looked like an Alpen-stock. "What's this?" she asked. "A
broomstick?"

"A specimen of rare Canadian wood, my dear. Would you like to have it?"

Zo took the offer quite seriously. She looked with longing eyes at the
specimen, three times as tall as herself--and shook her head. "I'm not
big enough for it, yet," she said. "Look at it, papa! Benjulia's stick
is nothing to this."

That name--on the child's lips--had a sound revolting to Ovid. "Don't
speak of him!" he said irritably.

"Mustn't I speak of him," Zo asked, "when I want him to tickle me?" Ovid
beckoned to her father. "Take her away now," he whispered--"and never
let her see that man again."

The warning was needless. The man's destiny had decreed that he and Zo
were never more to meet.

CHAPTER LXII.

Benjulia's servants had but a dull time of it, poor souls, in the lonely
house. Towards the end of December, they subscribed among themselves to
buy one of those wonderful Christmas Numbers--presenting year after year
the same large-eyed ladies, long-legged lovers, corpulent children, snow
landscapes, and gluttonous merry-makings--which have become a national
institution: say, the pictorial plum puddings of the English nation.

The servants had plenty of time to enjoy their genial newspaper, before
the dining-room bell disturbed them.

For some weeks past, the master had again begun to spend the whole of
his time in the mysterious laboratory. On the rare occasions when he
returned to the house, he was always out of temper. If the servants knew
nothing else, they knew what these signs meant--the great man was harder
at work than ever; and in spite of his industry, he was not getting on
so well as usual.

On this particular evening, the bell rang at the customary time--and the
cook (successor to the unfortunate creature with pretensions to beauty
and sentiment) hastened to get the dinner ready.

The footman turned to the dresser, and took from it a little heap of
newspapers; carefully counting them before he venture