of death and Phebe to have escaped without a
hair singed, followed a period of dire uncertainty, when nobody knew what
to believe, and felt only an obstinate conviction that everybody else had
got it entirely wrong. But at last the story straightened itself out into
something bearing a family resemblance to actual facts, and then Joppa
settled itself resolutely down to doing its duty. My duty toward my sick
neighbor in Joppa consists in calling twice a day, if not oftener, at his
house; in inquiring after his condition down to minutest and most sacred
details; in knowing accurately how many hours he slept last night, and
what he ate for breakfast, and what is paid the sick-nurse, and if it
includes her washing. My second duty toward my sick neighbor is to bring
him something to eat, on the supposition that "outside things taste
differently;" or something to look at; or, if nothing better, at least
something to refuse. My third and last duty toward my neighbor,--the well
neighbor who possesses the sick one,--is to narrate every somewhat
similar case on record, with all its circumstances and the ultimate
career of the sufferer; to prescribe remedies as infallible as the Pope;
to disapprove wholly, and on the best grounds, of those in actual use; to
offer every assistance in and out of my power; and to say at leaving that
I _hope_ it may all turn out well, but that _I_ should have called in the
other doctor. Joppa had learned by heart its duty toward its neighbor
from its earliest, stammering infancy, and it adhered strictly to the
path therein marked out. It inquired after Phebe diligently; it
thoroughly mastered all possible intricacies of her case; it made her
gifts digestible and indigestible; and it said that, by all odds, it was
Dr. Harrison who should have attended her from the first. Dr. Dennis took
very good care of her, nevertheless, and it was not long before he
pronounced that all she needed was quiet and rest to complete the cure.

"We shall have her out of bed in a few days now, Mrs. Lane; in a week or
so perhaps," he said, as he passed out at the front door where Mrs. Lane
was standing talking with Mrs. Hardcastle. "She is doing very well, as
well as I could wish. All she needs is rest. Keep her perfectly quiet."
And the doctor bowed himself off, first politely inquiring of Mrs.
Hardcastle after her husband's gout and her own dyspepsia.

"He is a fair-spoken man, certainly, very," said Mrs. Hardcastle, "thoug