g-room, and was passing out
through the hall when Lady Anne's voice over the banisters summoned him
to her presence.

"You can give me a little while, Dr. Carruthers?" she said. "I shall not
be interfering with your work?"

"I am quite free"--a little colour came into his cheeks. "The friend
whose work I was doing at the House of Mercy returned last night.
Yesterday was my last day."

"Ah! and yesterday brought you an unexpected patient. How do you find
her?"

"She has less physique than she ought to have."

"Yes, she has been underfed and overworked. I am going to alter all
that. I have taken her into my house as my little companion."

Dr. Carruthers stared in spite of himself.

"You think it very odd of me? Well, I _am_ odd, and I can afford to do
what pleases me. Mary Gray is going to live here. You should know her
father. A quite remarkable man, I consider him. Now, about yourself. I
have heard of you, Dr. Carruthers. I have heard that you are a very
clever young man and devoted to your work, that you have all the
knowledge of the schools at your fingertips, but very little experience,
and no practice to speak of."

"Excuse me, Lady Anne. I was three years house surgeon at the Good
Samaritan; and I have done a great deal of work since I have been here.
I will confess that my patients have been of a poor class."

"Who have not paid you a penny. I don't know whether you do it for
philanthropy or to keep your hand in----"

"A little of both," the young man said with a faint smile.

"But it is a good thing to do," the old lady went on, without noticing
his interpellation. "You're spoken well of by the poor, if the rich have
not heard anything about you. I know you're living beyond your means in
a big house, hoping that a paying practice will come to you. My dear
man, it never will, so long as people think you are in need of it. They
like Dr. Pownall at their doors with his carriage and pair, even if he
can only give them five minutes. Pownall forgot himself with me. I
remember his father--a very decent, respectable man who used to grow
cabbages. That's nothing against Pownall--creditable to him, I should
say. Still, he hadn't time to listen to my symptoms, and he was rude. 'A
woman of your age,' he said. I should like to know who told Dr. Pownall
my age. A lady has no age. 'It's time you retired,' I said to him. 'I
don't think of it,' said he; 'not for ten years yet. My patients won't
hear of it.' 'You're