ds are discussing some alarming symptom or formidable operation
which he himself is by-and-by--to hear of.

He was in Elsie's room almost before she knew he was in the house. He
came to her bedside in such a natural, quiet way, that it seemed as if he
were only a friend who had dropped in for a moment to say a pleasant
word. Yet he was very uneasy about Elsie until he had seen her; he never
knew what might happen to her or those about her, and came prepared for
the worst.

"Sick, my child?" he said, in a very soft, low voice.

Elsie nodded, without speaking.

The Doctor took her hand,--whether with professional views, or only in a
friendly way, it would have been hard to tell. So he sat a few minutes,
looking at her all the time with a kind of fatherly interest, but with it
all noting how she lay, how she breathed, her color, her expression, all
that teaches the practised eye so much without a single question being
asked. He saw she was in suffering, and said presently,

"You have pain somewhere; where is it?"

She put her hand to her head.

As she was not disposed to talk, he watched her for a while, questioned
Old Sophy shrewdly a few minutes, and so made up his mind as to the
probable cause of disturbance and the proper remedies to be used.

Some very silly people thought the old Doctor did not believe in
medicine, because he gave less than certain poor half-taught creatures in
the smaller neighboring towns, who took advantage of people's sickness to
disgust and disturb them with all manner of ill-smelling and ill-behaving
drugs. In truth, he hated to give anything noxious or loathsome to those
who were uncomfortable enough already, unless he was very sure it would
do good,--in which case, he never played with drugs, but gave good,
honest, efficient doses. Sometimes he lost a family of the more boorish
sort, because they did not think they got their money's worth out of him,
unless they had something more than a taste of everything he carried in
his saddlebags.

He ordered some remedies which he thought would relieve Elsie, and left
her, saying he would call the next day, hoping to find her better. But
the next day came, and the next, and still Elsie was on her bed,
feverish, restless, wakeful, silent. At night she tossed about and
wandered, and it became at length apparent that there was a settled
attack, something like what they called, formerly, a "nervous fever."

On the fourth day she was more