less for you," replied the doctor. "Who keeps house here?"

"O, I do that, sir."

"Then you must have to work very hard."

"Indeed, I don't! I have to keep busy almost all day; but it is such a
pleasure to me to know that I am doing something for _mon pere_, that I
never think it is hard at all."

Everything looked so neat and nice in the house that the doctor could
not decide whether any assistance was required or not. He was one of
those good physicians who felt for the poor and the humble. Though he
practised in some of the richest and most aristocratic families in the
city, his mission was not to them alone. He visited the haunts of
poverty, and not only contributed his professional services in their
aid, but he gave with no stinted hand from his own purse to relieve
their wants. When he died, the sermon preached on the Sunday after his
funeral was from the text, "The beloved physician;" and no one ever
went to his reward in heaven who better deserved the praise bestowed
upon him.

In the present instance, he felt that his work was not alone to heal
the sick. His patient was a journeyman barber, with only a boy, and a
girl of fifteen, to depend upon. This same doctor often went among his
friends in State Street, in 'change hours, to preach the gospel of
charity in his own unostentatious way. All gave when he asked, and it
was not a very difficult matter for him to raise fifty or a hundred
dollars for a deserving family. He purposed to do this for those under
the barber's humble roof, who, without being connected by the remotest
tie of blood, were more loving and devoted towards each other than many
whom God had joined by the ties of kindred.

The doctor never told anybody of his good deeds. Hardly did his left
hand know what his right hand did; and one of his eyes, which followed
not the other's apparent line of vision, seemed to be looking out all
the time for some hidden source of human suffering. He was as tender of
the feelings of others as he was of the visible wounds of his patients.
He saw the blush upon the cheeks of Maggie, and he interpreted it as
readily as though the sentiment had been expressed in words. He forbore
to make any further inquiries in regard to the pecuniary condition of
the strange family; but he was determined that all their wants should
be supplied, without injury to their laudable pride. He went away, and
Maggie and Leo were left to themselves.

"You haven't been to supper, Leo,