a time, so long as the house was a novelty;
but when that excitement was worn out, she began to be very dull,
and used to come and entice him out to walk with her: he would look
wistfully at her, but object that, if he left the house, he should be
sure to lose a patient.

"Oh, they won't come any more for our staying in--tiresome things!" said
Rosa.

But Christopher would kiss her, and remain firm. "My love," said he,
"you do not realize how hard a fight there is before us. How should you?
You are very young. No, for your sake, I must not throw a chance away.
Write to your female friends: that will while away an hour or two."

"What, after that Florence Cole?"

"Write to those who have not made such violent professions."

"So I will, dear. Especially to those that are married and come to
London. Oh, and I'll write to that cold-blooded thing, Lady Cicely
Treherne. Why do you shake your head?"

"Did I? I was not aware. Well, dear, if ladies of rank were to come
here, I fear they might make you discontented with your lot."

"All the women on earth could not do that. However, the chances are she
will not come near me: she left the school quite a big girl, an immense
girl, when I was only twelve. She used to smile at my capriccios; and
once she kissed me--actually. She was an awful Sawny, though, and so
affected: I think I will write to her."

These letters brought just one lady, a Mrs. Turner, who talked to Rosa
very glibly about herself, and amused Rosa twice: at the third visit,
Rosa tried to change the conversation. Mrs. Turner instantly got up, and
went away. She could not bear the sound of the human voice, unless it
was talking about her and her affairs.

And now Staines began to feel downright uneasy. Income was going
steadily out: not a shilling coming in. The lame, the blind, and the
sick frequented his dispensary, and got his skill out of him gratis, and
sometimes a little physic, a little wine, and other things that cost him
money: but of the patients that pay, not one came to his front door.

He walked round and round his little yard, like a hyena in its cage,
waiting, waiting, waiting: and oh! how he envied the lot of those who
can hunt for work, instead of having to stay at home and wait for others
to come, whose will they cannot influence. His heart began to sicken
with hope deferred, and dim forebodings of the future; and he saw, with
grief, that his wife was getting duller and duller, and that he