e Library at Barnstaple?"

"I don't know--I never asked,"--she said--"Father hated 'lent' books. He
had a savings-box--he used to call it his 'book-box'--and he would
always drop in every spare penny he had for books till he'd got a few
shillings, and then he would buy what he called 'classics.' They're all
so cheap, you see. And by degrees we got Shakespeare and Carlyle, and
Emerson and Scott and Dickens, and nearly all the poets; when you go
into the parlour you'll see quite a nice bookcase there, full of books.
It's much better to have them like that for one's own, than wait turns
at a Free Library. I've read all Shakespeare at least twenty times
over." The garden-gate suddenly clicked open and she turned her head.
"Here's Mr. Bunce come to see you."

Helmsley drew himself up a little in his chair as the village doctor
entered, and after exchanging a brief "Good-morning!" with Mary,
approached him. The situation was curious;--here was he,--a
multi-millionaire, who could have paid the greatest specialists in the
world for their medical skill and attendance,--under the supervision and
scrutiny of this simple herbalist, who, standing opposite to him, bent a
pair of kindly brown eyes enquiringly upon his face.

"Up to-day, are we?" said Mr. Bunce--"That is well; that's very well!
Better in ourselves, too, are we? Better in ourselves?"

"I am much better,"--replied Helmsley--"Very much better!--thanks to you
and Miss Deane. You--you have both been very good to me."

"That's well--that's very well!" And Mr. Bunce appeared to ruminate,
while Helmsley studied his face and figure with greater appreciation
than he had yet been able to do. He had often seen this small dark man
in the pauses of his feverish delirium,--often he had tried to answer
his gentle questions,--often in the dim light of early morning or late
evening he had sought to discern his features, and yet could make
nothing clear as to their actual form, save that their expression was
kind. Now, as it seemed for the first time, he saw Mr. Bunce as he
was,--small and wiry, with a thin, clean-shaven face, deeply furrowed,
broad brows, and a pleasant look,--the eyes especially, deep sunk in the
head though they were, had a steady tenderness in them such as one sees
in the eyes of a brave St. Bernard dog who has saved many lives.

"We must,"--said Mr. Bunce, after a long pause--"be careful. We have got
out of bed, but we must not walk much. The heart is weak--we