burying her head on
Willie's face she wept for a moment silently. Then, lifting it up, she
tried to thank her benefactor, looking now at him for the first time,
and feeling half overawed to find him so tall, so stylish, so
exceedingly refined and aristocratic in every look and action.

Irving Stanley was a passenger on that train, bound for Albany. Like Dr.
Richards, he had hoped to enjoy a whole seat, even though it were not a
very comfortable one, but when he saw how pale and tired Adah was, he
arose at once to offer his seat. He heard her sweet, low voice as she
tried to thank him. He saw, too, the little, soft, white hands, holding
so fast to Willie. Was he her brother or her son? She was young to be
his mother. Perhaps she was his sister; but, no, there was no mistaking
the mother-love shining out from the brown eyes turned so quickly upon
the boy when he moaned, as if in pain, and seemed about to waken.

"He's been sick most all the way," she said. "There's something the
matter with his ear, I think, as he complains of that. Do children ever
die with the earache?"

Irving Stanley hardly thought they did. At all events, he never heard of
such a case, and then, after suggesting a remedy, should the pain
return, he left his new acquaintance.

"A part of your seat, sir, if you please," and Irving's voice was rather
authoritative than otherwise, as he claimed the half of what the doctor
was monopolizing.

It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was asleep, for Irving
spoke so like a man who knew what he was doing, that the doctor was
compelled to yield, and turning about, recognized his Saratoga
acquaintance. The recognition was mutual, and after a few natural
remarks, Irving explained how he had given his seat to a lady, who
seemed ready to drop with fatigue and anxiety concerning her little
child, who was suffering from the earache.

"By the way, doctor," he added, "you ought to know the remedy for such
ailments. Suppose you prescribe in case it returns. I do pity that young
woman."

Dr. Richards stared at him in astonishment.

"I know but little about babies or their aches," he answered at last,
just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed
effort on the mother's part to soothe her suffering child.

The pain must have been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his
agony, writhed from Adah's lap and sank upon the floor, his waxen hand
pressed convulsively to his ear, and h