he morning,
and perhaps done out of my fee! Quack! Villain!"

Meanwhile, Dr. Morgan had returned to the sick-room.

"I must wish you farewell," said he to poor Mr. Digby, who was languidly
sipping his tea. "But you are in the hands of a--of a--gentleman in the
profession."

"You have been too kind--I am shocked," said Mr. Digby. "Helen, where's
my purse?"

Dr. Morgan paused.

He paused, first, because it must be owned that his practice was
restricted, and a fee gratified the vanity natural to unappreciated
talent, and had the charm of novelty, which is sweet to human nature
itself. Secondly, he was a man "Who knew his rights, and, knowing, dared
maintain." He had resigned a coach fare--staid a night--and thought he
had relieved his patient. He had a right to his fee.

On the other hand he paused, because, though he had small practice, he
was tolerably well off, and did not care for money itself, and he
suspected his patient to be no Croesus.

Meanwhile, the purse was in Helen's hand. He took it from her, and saw
but a few sovereigns within the well-worn net-work. He drew the child a
little aside.

"Answer me, my dear, frankly--is your papa rich?" And he glanced at the
shabby clothes strewed on the chair, and Helen's faded frock.

"Alas, no!" said Helen, hanging her head.

"Is that all you have?"

"All."

"I am ashamed to offer you two guineas," said Mr. Digby's hollow voice
from the bed.

"And I should be still more ashamed to take them. Good-by, sir. Come
here, my child. Keep your money, and don't waste it on the other doctor
more than you can help. His medicines can do your father no good. But I
suppose you must have some. He's no physician, therefore there's no fee.
He'll send a bill--it can't be much. You understand. And now, God bless
you."

Dr. Morgan was off. But as he paid the landlady his bill he said,
considerately, "The poor people up-stairs can pay you, but not that
doctor--and he's of no use. Be kind to the little girl, and get the
doctor to tell his patient (quietly, of course) to write to his
friends--soon--you understand. Somebody must take charge of the poor
child. And stop--hold your hand; take care--these globules for the
little girl when her father dies--(here the Doctor muttered to himself,
'grief;--_aconite_')--and if she cries too much afterward--these (don't
mistake). Tears;--_caustic!_"

"Come, sir," cried the coachman.

"Coming;--tears--_caustic_," repeated the homeopathi