ame more freely), "that
my stay must necessarily be short. I need not say that it would afford
me the highest pleasure to accept your kind invitation" (he turned with
a slight bow to Katie, and Queeker almost fainted), "but the truth is,
that I have come down on a particular piece of business, in regard to
which I wish to have your advice, and must return to London to-morrow or
next day at furthest."

Queeker's heart resumed its office.

"I am sorry to hear that--very sorry. However, you shall stay to-night
at all events; and you shall have the best advice I can give you on any
subject you choose to mention. By the way talking of advice, you're an
M.D. now, I fancy?"

"Not yet," replied Stanley. "I am not quite fledged, although nearly
so, and I wish to go on a voyage before completing my course."

"Quite right, quite right--see a little of life first, eh? But how
comes it, Stanney, that you took kindly to the work at last, for, when I
knew you first you could not bear the idea of becoming a doctor?"

"One's ideas change, I suppose," replied the youth, with a
smile,--"probably my making the discovery that I had some talent in that
direction had something to do with it."

"H'm; how did you make that discovery, my boy?" asked the old gentleman.

"That question can't easily be answered except by my inflicting on you a
chapter of my early life," replied Stanley, laughing.

"Then inflict it on us without delay, my boy. I shall delight to
listen, and so, I am sure, will Katie and Fanny. As to my young friend
Queeker, he is of a somewhat literary turn, and may perhaps throw the
incidents into verse, if they are of a sufficiently romantic character!"

Katie and Fanny declared they would be charmed to hear about it, and
Queeker said, in a savagely jesting tone, that he was so used to things
being inflicted on him, that he didn't mind--rather liked it than
otherwise!

"But you must not imagine," said Stanley, "that I have a thrilling
narrative to give you, I can merely relate the two incidents which fixed
my destiny in regard to a profession. You remember, I daresay, that my
heart was once set upon going to sea. Well, like most boys, I refused
to listen to advice on that point, and told my father that I should
never make a surgeon--that I had no taste or talent for the medical
profession. The more my father tried to reason me out of my desire, the
more obstinate I became. The only excuse that I can plead is