of all this kind of
thing? Mrs. Bell chokes up her small drawing-room so full of visitors
who only come to laugh at her, that one can't breathe comfortably there
without the window open, and a fine fresh bronchitis I've got in
consequence. You feel me, doctor. I'm all shivering and burning, I'm
going to be very ill, there isn't a doubt of it."

"Your pulse hasn't quickened," said the doctor, "it's as steady as my
own."

"Oh, well, if you don't choose to believe in the sufferings of your
wife, exhibited before your very eyes, go to your Bells, and comfort
them."

"Now, Jessie, don't talk nonsense, old lady. You know I'm the first to
believe you bad if you are. But what's this about Beatrice Meadowsweet?
Is she really engaged to young Bertram?"

"It's the gossip, Tom. But maybe it isn't the case. I'll call to see
Mrs. Meadowsweet this morning, and find out."

"I would if I were you. Beatrice is a fine girl, and mustn't throw
herself away."

"Throw herself away! Why, it's a splendid match for her. A most
aristocratic young man! One of the upper ten, and no mistake."

"That's all you women think about. Well, I'm off to the Bells now."

The doctor presently reached that rather humble little dwelling where
the Bell family enjoyed domestic felicity.

He was ushered in by the maid, who wore an important and mysterious
face. Mrs. Bell quickly joined him, and she looked more important and
mysterious still.

"Matty isn't well," she said, sinking her voice to a stage whisper.
"Matty has been badly treated; she has had a blight."

"Dear, dear!" said Doctor Morris.

He was a fat, comfortable-looking man, his hands in particular were very
fat, and when he warred to show special sympathy he was fond of rubbing
them.

"Dear, dear!" he repeated. "A blight! That's more a phrase to apply to
the potato than to a blooming young girl."

"All the same, doctor, it's true. Matty has been blighted. She had set
her young affections where they were craved and sought, and, so to
speak, begged for. She gave them, _not willingly_, doctor, but
after all the language that melting eyes, and more melting words, could
employ. _The_ word wasn't spoken, but all else was done. She gave
her heart, doctor, not unasked, and now it's sent back to her, and she's
blighted, that's the only word for it."

"I should think so," said the doctor, who was far too professional to
smile. "A heart returned like that is always a little difficult to
dispo