sh Dispensary Doctors. On this windy June
morning they had met in the dreary yard of the Workhouse, to which the
Infirmary was attached, and together they paced the long, whitewashed,
slate-paven passages that led to the Infirmary, pausing at intervals
to talk of matters quite unconnected with their patients, but, if the
frequency of the pauses, filled by the sibilant whispers of the little
doctor, and the deep growls of the big one, was any criterion, none
the less absorbing.

"His name's been accepted," ended the Big Doctor, after the lengthiest
of these, "and it would be no harm for you to be slipping in a word,
now and again, with the people through the country, according as you'd
get the chance, Danny."

"I will, I will," replied the little doctor, as he opened the door of
Father Sweeny's room.

"You're doing very well, Father," said Dr. Mangan, his inspection of
the patient ended. "I consider you couldn't be progressing more
satisfactorily." He seated himself by Father Tim Sweeny's bedside,
while the Nursing Sister-in-Charge rolled up bandages, and conferred
in lowered tones with Dr. Aherne, on the subject of what he called the
patient's "dite."

"You'll be going as strong as ever you did in a few weeks' time,"
continued Dr. Mangan, encouragingly.

Father Sweeny returned the Doctor's look morosely.

"I'm sick and tired of being here as it is," he said, gloomily, "and
you talk to me of weeks!"

"Ah, they'll pass, never fear they'll pass!" said the Big Doctor,
cheerfully. "I never saw the weeks yet that didn't pass if you waited
long enough! And I wouldn't say but that you mightn't go home before
you're out of our hands entirely."

Father Sweeny received these consolations with an unpropitiated grunt.
His large face, with its broad cheeks and heavy double-chins, that was
usually of a sanguine and all pervasive beefy-red, now hung in pallid
purple folds, on which dark bristles, that were as stiff as those on
the barrel of a musical box, told that the luxury of shaving had
hitherto been withheld. There are some professions that tend more than
others to grade the men that follow them into distinct types. The Sea
is one of these, the Church, and pre-eminently the Church of Rome, is
another. The ecclesiastical types vary no less than the nautical ones,
and neither need here be enumerated. It is sufficient to say that
Father Sweeny, when in his usual robust health, in voice, in
appearance, and in manner, provok