s great chagrin I had
proved myself his superior in a medical controversy, and that the
fever which my wife contracted was in all human probability due to his
carelessness and want of precautions while in attendance upon her. When
this cross-examination was concluded the court rose for the day, and,
being on bail, I escaped from the dock until the following morning.

I returned to my house and went up to the nursery to see the baby, who
was a very fine and healthy infant. At first I could scarcely bear to
look at this child, remembering always that indirectly it had been the
cause of its dear mother's death. But now, when I was so lonely, for
even those who called themselves my friends had fallen away from me in
the time of trial, I felt drawn towards the helpless little thing.

I kissed it and put it back into its cradle, and was about to leave
the room when the nurse, a respectable widow woman with a motherly air,
asked me straight out what were my wishes about the child and by what
name it was to be baptised, seeing that when I was in jail she might not
be able to ascertain them. The good woman's question made me wince,
but, recognising that in view of eventualities these matters must be
arranged, I took a sheet of paper and wrote down my instructions, which
were briefly that the child should be named Emma Jane after its mother
and mine, and that the nurse, Mrs. Baker, should take it to her cottage,
and be paid a weekly sum for its maintenance.

Having settled these disagreeable details I went downstairs, but not to
the dinner that was waiting for me, as after the nurse's questions I did
not feel equal to facing the other domestics. Leaving the house I walked
about the streets seeking some small eating-place where I could dine
without being recognised. As I wandered along wearily I heard a harsh
voice behind me calling me by name, and, turning, found that the speaker
was Mr. Stephen Strong. Even in the twilight there was no possibility of
mistaking his flaming red tie.

"You are worried and tired, doctor," said the harsh voice. "Why ain't
you with your friends, instead of tramping the streets after that long
day in court?"

"Because I have no friends left," I answered, for I had arrived at that
stage of humiliation when a man no longer cares to cloak the truth.

A look of pity passed over Mr. Strong's fat face, and the lines about
the pugnacious mouth softened a little.

"Is that so?" he said. "Well, young man