pensioners who lay sick in his rascally crib. It was not the first time
that the jolly little doctor had been entrapped by the good lady into a
purely philanthropic excursion of this kind. But he could not afford to
mutiny, and vented his disgust in blisters and otherwise drastic
treatment of the malingering scoundrels whom he served out after his
kind for the trouble and indignity they cost him.

'And here we are, Lily dear, on our way to see poor dear Pat Doolan,
who, I fear, is not very long for this world. Dominick!--he's got a
brain fever, my dear.'

The doctor said 'pish!' inaudibly, and Aunt Becky went on.

'You know the unhappy creature is only just out of prison, and if ever
mortal suffered unjustly, he's the man. Poor Doolan's as innocent as you
or I, my dear, or sweet little Spot, there;' pointing her fan like a
pistol at that interesting quadruped's head. 'The disgrace has broken
his heart, and that's at the bottom of his sickness. I wish you could
hear him speak, poor dear wretch--Dominick!' and she had a word for that
domestic in the hall.

'Hear him speak, indeed!' said Toole, taking advantage of her momentary
absence. 'I wish you could, the drunken blackguard. King Solomon could
not make sense of it. She gave that burglar, would you believe it,
Ma'am? two guineas, by Jupiter: the first of this month--and whiskey
only sixpence a pint--and he was drunk without intermission of course,
day and night for a week after. Brain fever, indeed, 'tis just as sweet
a little fit of delirium tremens, my dear Madam, as ever sent an
innocent burglar slap into bliss;' and the word popped out with a
venomous hiss and an angry chuckle.

'And so, my dear,' resumed Aunt Becky, marching in again; 'good Doctor
Toole--our good Samaritan, here--has taken him up, just for love, and
the poor man's fee--his blessing.'

The doctor muttered something about 'taking him up,' but inarticulately,
for it was only for the relief of his own feelings.

'And now, dear Lilias, we want your good father to come with us, just to
pray by the poor fellow's bedside: he's in the study, is he?'

'No, he was not to be home until to-morrow morning.'

'Bless me!' cried Aunt Becky, with as much asperity as if she had said
something different; 'and not a soul to be had to comfort a dying wretch
in your father's parish--yes, he's dying; we want a minister to pray
with him, and here we've a Flemish account of the rector. This tells
prettily for Dr.