heart
in the village in his pocket. A young rascal!"

Miss Phoebe colored and drew herself up.

"Sister Phoebe," Miss Vesta breathed rather than spoke, "James is in
jest. He has the highest opinion of--"

"Vesta, I _think_ I have my senses," said Miss Phoebe, kindly. "I have
heard James use exaggerated language before. Candor compels me to admit,
James, that I have benefited greatly by the advice and prescriptions of
Doctor Strong; also that, though deploring certain aspects of his
conduct while under our roof--I will say no more, having reconciled
myself entirely to the outcome of the matter--we have become deeply
attached to him. He is"--Miss Phoebe's voice quavered slightly--"he is
a chosen spirit."

"Dear Geoffrey!" murmured Miss Vesta.

"But in spite of this," Miss Phoebe continued, graciously, "we feel
the ties of ancient friendship as strongly as ever, James, and must
always value you highly, whether as physician or as friend."

"Yes, indeed, dear James," said Miss Vesta, softly.

Doctor Stedman rose from his seat. His eyes were very tender as he
looked at the sisters from under his shaggy eyebrows.

"Good girls!" he said. "I couldn't afford to lose my best--patients." He
straightened his broad shoulders and looked round the room. "When I saw
anything new over there," he said, "castle or picture-gallery or
cathedral,--whatever it was,--I always compared it with this room, and
it never stood the comparison for an instant. Pleasantest place in the
world, to my thinking."

Miss Phoebe beamed over her spectacles. "You pay us a high compliment,
James," she said. "It is pleasant indeed to feel that home still seems
best to you. I confess that, great as are the treasures of art, and
magnificent as are the monuments in the cities of Europe, I have always
felt that as places of residence they would not compare favorably with
Elmerton."

"Quite right," said Doctor Stedman, "quite right!" and though his eyes
twinkled, he spoke with conviction.

"The cities of Europe," Mr. Homer observed, "can hardly be suited, as
places of residence, to--a--persons of literary taste. There is"--he
waved his hands--"too much noise; too much--sound; too much--absence of
tranquillity. I could wish, though, to have seen the grave of Keats."

"I brought you a leaf from his grave, Homer," said Doctor Stedman,
kindly. "I have it at home, in my pocketbook. I'll bring it down to the
office to-morrow. I went to the burying-ground on p