BY AGNES GIBERNE; AUTHOR OF

CHAPTER V.

WILL BROWNING'S SHOES. DARK sad night,—a candle flickering on the table,

a little child gasping out its feeble life upon its mother's knee, a sorrowful heart-broken father standing by! Ah, poor Tim! he little guessed it was this to which he was coming.

Tim had felt depressed and worried before, but what was that to the bitter anguish of his heart as he stood by his dying child?, For he was Will Browning, Will Browning's children were his. Will Browning's heart was his. Tim felt half-distracted with bitter sorrow. He looked back and remembered the one-two-three little ones, who had been already, at long intervals, removed by death. How dear they had been to him! Strange, -for Tim had never given much thought to these children of his neighbour, passing one by one away. He had noted well his prosperity, and had been sorry for him in a careless fashion now and then, but he had never realized this!

He realized it now, standing in Will Browning's shoes. Three children gone. Another going. Only two remaining. Ay, and the sweet-faced delicate mother, another Mary, only pale and careworn, instead of plump and blithe-might there not be the dim shadow of death creeping already over her face? Tim knew it to be so, as he gazed upon her, while she bent tearfully over her dying little one. And his soul recoiled from the thought, and his heart beat thickly, and deep sobs struggled upwards, and tears rose to the manly eyes which had never grown moist at aught of bodily pain. For Tim was Will Browning now,-as brave and manly and truehearted a working-man as ever lived,-prosperous so far as money was concerned. But, oh, how was it that Tim had not remembered or had so faintly calculated the darkness of

"Will! when did the doctor say he'd come again ?" asked Mary in a hollow voice. "Seems to me there ain't much time to lose."

"He said he'd come by the earliest morning," Tim answered in tones so low and gentle as to startle himself; "but he could do nothing more, he said. Willie, Willie; won't Willie look at father?"

The child's blue eyes did open and look up for a moment, and a sweet smile passed over the little wan face. But then there was a change, a dark grey shadow, the meaning of which Tim too well knew.

"Will! he's dying," sobbed the poor mother. "O Willie, Willie, mother's darling! Oh, can't you call the doctor, Will? Maybe he'd try something fresh."

Tim felt wild,-frantic. He rushed to the door and out into the dark silent night. He hastened through the streets with rapid footsteps and burning brow. His Willie,—his darling little Willie! Oh, what was aught of outward success and prosperity beside such sorrow as this? Money-troubles,-why, they were as nothing in comparison.

Poor Tim grew confused as he hurried along; and now he thought of Willie, and now of his little Tim at home,-one moment passionately grieving, as Will Browning, over the dying child; the next rejoicing, as Tim Teddington, over the thought that he at least had never known such woe. Poor Will Browning,-how Tim pitied him. And then he remembered that he was Will Browning, and he pitied himself, and wished he were Tim; only, as usual, it never occurred to him to take off the shoes. And then he thought afresh of Willie, and rushed on with redoubled speed.

The doctor's house was reached at length. But just as Tim put out his hand to ring the bell, he stopped short; for in one moment he found himself face to face on the doorstep with the little old gentleman carrying his blue bag..

"Just in time," said the little gentleman politely. "I won't trouble you to descend

Tim took the shoes which were handed to him, and endeavoured to put them on, but it was not easy. "Dear me, they seem very small," he muttered.

"Weren't made for you," said the old gentleman. "Very extraordinary the sort of expectations people have, that anything under the sun is fitted for anybody. Shoes won't fit unless they're made to fit. That's how it is so many kings have failed to keep their shoes on long, because in fact they had been made to fit somebody else. But never mind,—of course you don't mind a little pain. Pull hard."

"They won't come properly on at all," said Tim. "I don't think they'll tumble off, though, in fact they are too tight. Dear me, how they pinch my toes."

"Mustn't mind that," said the old gentleman consolingly. "Perhaps by-and-by they may pinch less, as your foot adapts itself to its new covering."

"Or the shoes may stretch a little," said Tim hopefully.

"Why no, I don't think you must expect much in that line. Now then, put on the second shoe; pull hard, all at once,-and-" Tim heard no more, for he was sound asleep in a big four-posted bed, with chintz curtains on either side.

CHAPTER VI.

THE DOCTOR'S SHOES.

"PLEASE, sir,—"

It was a voice, startling Tim unexpectedly from his slumbers.

"Yes,- a —ah —oh—” yawned Tim, in

66

Yes; but he does beg so that you'll go, sir. The poor fellow seems half-distracted like. You see, sir, it's the fourth he'll have lost."

Tim yawned again. "Five o'clock, and I didn't go to bed-till-till past twelve, I am sure. Well, there's no help for it."

Kind-hearted as Tim himself had always been, and kind-hearted as was the doctor into whose shoes he had stepped,-still it was rather a trial to him to turn out of bed at that time in the morning, more especially as he knew that his services would be absolutely useless. No human aid could save the child, he told himself.

"Dear me, how odd!" he muttered at the first moment of stepping on the floor. “I must have got into bed with my slippers on."

Then he remembered facts, and held his tongue; but the shoes pinched so unmercifully that he walked quite lamely, and the servant, who was still lingering, said,

"I'm afraid you were overdone yesterday, sir."

"Hum,-he,-yes,-perhaps so," said Tim, rather uncertain as to how the previous day had been spent, if he really was the doctor now, and not Tim Teddington any longer.

"Won't you put on another pair of shoes, sir?" asked the servant, evidently surprised to see the doctor's heels nearly resting on the bare ground.

But Tim knew that would never do. "On no account," he said testily. "Go and order the carriage. I'll be ready in half an hour.”

riage, sir!" for the doctor usually walked, if called up in the night.

But Tim did not see how he was to walk in these shoes; so he said, "Yes," very decidedly; and the servant disappeared, and Tim went to the looking-glass.

Yes; there was the doctor,-the very same benevolent face which Tim had seen before, when bending over his baby's cradle, only there was just a look of Tim himself showing through the eyes. It was very odd. could not make it out at all.

Tim

At all events he felt very wise now. What a deal of knowledge he had to be sure! All about his own and his neighbours' insides as well as their outsides; and all about skeletons and skins and veins and arteries and the mysteries of the human frame generally, concerning which physicians know so much, - though little is that much, except in comparison with the greater ignorance of other

men.

Tim felt quite oppressed with the burden of so much learning, and yet he was proud of it too. He did not regret this change of his. It was a great thing to be a doctor,—a grand thing to be able to help everybody who was ill. How people would look up to him! And then what a comfortable home he had of his own!

So he had, if only he could have found time to enjoy it. Tim soon discovered what was lacking in this respect, however. He drove to the Brownings' house, and stood by the little fellow when he died, and tried to speak some comforting words to the poor father and mother. He was astonished to find how small was the power of the very kindest words to give real consolation. Poor Will and Mary thanked him heartily, but they sorrowed on just the same.

Then Tim drove back, feeling tired and sleepy, and having some thoughts of going to bed again. But, behold! a second message was awaiting him from a nervous old lady at the other end of the town, who had been seized with spasms. Somehow Tim was quite aware that it wouldn't do to offend her. He had gone to the Brownings out of sheer kindness. He must go now, out of mingled politeness and regard for his own interests. If

forsake him immediately. And Tim, though a well-to-do doctor, couldn't of course afford to offend his wealthy patients.

So, after snatching a hasty breakfast, off went Tim again, perfectly aware all the time that the old lady could have managed just as well without him as with him for a couple of hours,-if only she could have been induced to believe it. And having paid her a long visit, greatly to the detriment of his own patience, but quite as much to the composing of her nerves, Tim set off on his regular round.

He would have been rather at a loss himself to know where to go; but the coachman seemed thoroughly acquainted with the doctor's plans, and drove Tim from house to house quite systematically.

It was delightful at first,-driving luxu riously about in his own carriage, with books and papers to while away the time, and anxious patients perpetually welcoming his arrival. But gradually the first bloom of pleasure began to wear away. He missed the bodily exercise to which he was accustomed, and the monotony of his occupation palled upon him. The supply of books was not to his taste. The constant atmosphere of sick rooms, and the never-ceasing recurrence of questions on his own part and catalogues of ailments on the other, became positively depressing.

Of

Besides, as Tim went thus from house to house, he began gradually to realize the great load of responsibility which rested on him. Suppose in this house or that he should have taken a wrong view of a case, and have entered upon a mistaken course of treatment. Tim quite shuddered at the thought. course he knew himself to be a highly capable and dependable physician in the opinion of most folks,-certainly not excluding his own. But the very cleverest doctors are liable to make mistakes, and this weight of responsibility coming thus suddenly upon Tim was almost more than could be endured. The real fact was of course that the shoes didn't fit.

were to feel I hadn't done the very best and wisest thing, wouldn't that be dreadful? Nobody else might blame me; in fact, I don't see how they could if I'd given the best advice in my power; but I should never forgive myself.

"And that other poor fellow, whose brain is in such a state; I'm sure I don't know what is the matter with him. Who can ? If there was a consultation of all the chief doctors in England, nobody would be any the wiser. But what a terrible thing, that his life or death may be hanging upon the remedies which I shall devise! and if-if I make a mistake-"

Tim groaned aloud, deeply as he had groaned over the dying child. He was getting tired out and depressed; yet still he had to go on, and still he had to be kind and patient, and polite and attentive. Once a sharp word did escape him, and Tim saw at once that dire offence had been taken. These invalid ladies were accustomed, evidently, to being treated with the utmost circumspection. Tim began to feel desperate. He backed out of that house somehow, and wanted to go straight home; but the coachman would not hear of it. On and on he drove remorselessly, and Tim's remonstrances were in vain.

The regular round was over at last, and poor exhausted Tim was able to recruit his energies by a good dinner,—a peculiarly good one it must be confessed, and very particularly Tim needed it. After that he wanted to go to sleep. But no; this was the time for seeing patients at home. No sooner was dinner cleared away than they began to appear, one after another, in a ceaseless stream. And as fast as they streamed in, just so fast did Tim's patience stream out.

Then came a fresh call. Somebody else wanted a visit from the doctor,—a little child taken with the croup. Tim went, and came back to find another note awaiting him. Tim flung it down, subsided into an arm-chair, and refused point-blank to go.

"Am I to say that you intend to remain at home this evening, sir ?" asked the amazed man-servant.

"Say anything you like. I'm not going,"

So the servant vanished, and in his place appeared the old gentleman with his bluc bag and a very frowning face.

"Tim Teddington, this won't do. If you stand in the doctor's shoes, you must do the doctor's work. Folks can't be left to die for want of medical aid, just because you are— ahem!-somewhat addicted to laziness." "You may well call it work. I'm worn to death," said Tim.

"A

"Possibly," was the sarcastic answer. good many other doctors are, besides yourself; so you mustn't mind that."

"But I say I do mind it," retorted Tim. "When am I to rest and amuse myself, pray, if I'm never left an hour in peace ?"

"Why, just when it happens that you can," said the little gentleman. "A doctor isn't his own master, you see."

"But perhaps every day isn't like this," said Tim hopefully.

"Fair average day,-fair average,—some better, some worse.'

"Worse! I couldn't stand that," said Tim. "No; you like a good many holidays, I believe," said the old gentleman drily.

"Who doesn't?" asked Tim.

"Ah! but you see illness won't wait for holidays."

“What! no holidays!" said Tim, aghast.

"Well; you may take a few days' leave of absence now and then,- in fact, you will doubtless have to do so; but it is trying to come back and find everything gone wrong in your absence, and maybe a patient or two in danger of being killed off through mistaken treatment. Once a year or so, perhaps oftener, you will make some such attempt at recreation. Or you may arrange occasionally to take a day in the country, you know; but at the last moment somebody is very likely to fall dangerously ill, just in time to stop you on the platform as you are starting. Or, if you are already off, a telegram may overtake you. Just ordinary little incidents, these, connected with the medical profession,-somewhat patience-trying at first, but you will grow used to them in time."

"I give it up," said Tim. "Talk of slavery! This is slavery, and no mistake. Why, there isn't a moment of the day I can rightly call

"No; that would be too much for a doctor to expect. Still, no doubt you will find a little leisure at odd times, now and then, though there are days when even meals themselves get pushed away nowhere. But if you would like to make longer trial,—I don't know whether I could bring it about, but I'll try. I confess, the doctor finds himself particularly uncomfortable in your shoes, and complains bitterly of want of interest and occu

pation. You see, smoking in the doorway doesn't suit his views. But if you would like to make a six months' trial-"

"Six months!" shouted Tim, "I should be in a lunatic asylum before three were over. No more doctoring for me, if you please. I have done with prescriptions and draughts. Give me any shoes,-any you like,-in exchange,-only don't ask me to keep these."

AM a little Heartsease, A very common flower; But I gladly grow and sweetly blow In the sunshine and the shower. I can live in any corner

Of the poor man's humble plot;
And I'm found in royal gardens,
Contented with my lot.

I am told they call me Heartscase
Because I look so bright;
For my head is always buoyant,
And my heart for ever light.
I have learnt how to be happy,
I can spring on any soil;
And people say I'm always gay,
And, looking up, I smile.

I have seen folks dressed in purple,
And all aglow with gold,
With miserable faces,

Quite painful to behold;
And I say,

"Fie!" as they pass by, "See how kind God is to me; My life is joy without alloy,

Heartsease is blithe and free."

Sometimes the sick and suffering,
With tear-drops in their eyes,
All pale and meek, with sunken cheek
And trembling steps and sighs,
Stop to behold me all in bloom;
And I sing them this short song :—
""Twas God made Heartsease beautiful,
And God can make you strong."

I am a little Heartsease,
And I'm

'm merry all the year;
I never cry, I never sigh,
And never grieve or fear.
In sunshine I'm all radiance,

And tempests make me thrive;
And my kind look can't be mistook,
I am Heartsease-all alive!
So look at little Heartsease,

And learn to live and smile;
And let your kindness lighten
The weight of others' toil.
God smiles on you-look cheerful,

And smile on all around;
'Tis thus that little Heartsease
With happiness is crowned.

BENJAMIN GOUGH.

Two reasons have been given why some persons don't mind their own business: One

they haven't any mind. There may be some truth in this. Let me think about it.