an immense lump wrapped in clean white linen and bound up
with a gaudy yellow handkerchief. It was a goitre.

"Iss, my dears," she answered, touching it and smiling, but with tears
in her eyes; "this here's my only child, an' iver will be. Ne'er a
man'll look 'pon me, so I'm forced to be content wi' this babe and
clothe 'en pretty, as you see. Ah, you'm lucky, you'm lucky, though
you talk so!"

"She's terrible fond o' childer," said one of the women audibly,
addressing me. "How many 'noculations have you 'tended, 'Melia?"

"Six-an'-twenty, countin' to-day," 'Melia announced with pride in her
trembling voice. But at this point one of the infants began to cry,
and before he could be hushed the noise of wheels sounded down the
road, and Dr. Rodda drove up in his reedy gig.

He was a round, dapper practitioner, with slightly soiled cuffs and
an extremely business-like manner. On entering the room he jerked his
head in a general nod to all present, and stepping to the table, drew
a small packet from his waistcoat, and unfolded it. It contained about
a score of small pieces of ivory, pointed like pens, but flat. Then,
pulling out a paper and consulting it hastily, he set to work,
beginning with the child that lay on the blonde woman's lap, next to
the door.

I looked around. The children were staring with wide, admiring eyes.
Their mothers also watched, but listlessly, still suckling their babes
as each waited its turn. Only 'Melia Penaluna winced and squeezed her
hands together whenever a feeble wailing told that one of the vaccine
points had made itself felt.

"Do 'ee think it hurts the poor mites?" the youngest mother asked.

"Not much, I reckon," answered the big woman.

Nevertheless her own child cried pitifully when its turn came. And as
it cried, the childless woman in the corner got off her chair and ran
forward tremulously.

"'Becca, let me take him. Do'ee, co!"

"'Melia Penaluna, you'm no better 'n a fool."

But poor, misnamed Amelia was already back in her corner with the
child, hugging it, kissing it, rocking it in her arms, crooning over
it, holding it tightly against the lump that hung down on her barren
bosom. Long after the baby had ceased to cry she sat crooning and
yearning over it. And the mothers watched her, with wonder and
scornful amusement in their eyes.

FROM A COTTAGE IN GANTICK.

I.--THE MOURNER'S HORSE.

The Board Schoolmaster and I are not friends. He is something of
a