on and let things take their
natural course.

Now, there arose a coolness between Agnes Buckley and the Mayfords,
mother and son, which was never made up--never, oh, never! Not very
many months after this she would have given ten thousand pounds to have
been reconciled to the kind-hearted old busy-body; but then it was too
late.

But now, going out into the garden, she found the Doctor busy planting
some weeds he had found in the bush, in a quiet corner, with an air of
stealth, intending to privately ask the gardener to see after them till
he could fetch them away. The magpie, having seen from the window a
process of digging and burying going on, had attended in his official
capacity, standing behind the Doctor, and encouraging him every now and
then with a dance, or a few flute-like notes of music. I need hardly
mention that the moment the Doctor's back was turned the bird rooted up
every one of the plants, and buried them in some secret spot of his
own, where they lie, I believe, till this day.

To the Doctor she told the whole matter, omitting nothing, and then
asked his advice. "I suppose," she said, "you will only echo my own
determination of doing nothing at all?"

"Quite so, my dear madam. If she loves Sam, she will marry him; if she
don't, he is better without her."

"That is true," said Mrs. Buckley. "I hope she will have good taste
enough to choose my boy."

"I hope so too, I am sure," said the Doctor. "But we must not be very
furious if she don't. Little Cecil Mayford is both handsomer and
cleverer than Sam. We must not forget that, you know."

That evening was the first thoroughly unhappy evening, I think, that
Sam ever passed in his life. I am inclined to imagine that his
digestion was out of order. If any of my readers ever find themselves
in the same state of mind that he was in that night, let them be
comforted by considering that there is always a remedy at hand, before
which evil thoughts and evil tempers of all kinds fly like mist before
the morning sun. How many serious family quarrels, marriages out of
spite, alterations of wills, and secessions to the Church of Rome,
might have been prevented by a gentle dose of blue pill! What awful
instances of chronic dyspepsia are presented to our view by the
immortal bard in the characters of Hamlet and Othello! I look with awe
on the digestion of such a man as the present King of Naples. Banish
dyspepsia and spirituous liquors from society, and you