athed it so
softly and soothingly that the child soon became composed; and the
mother discovered the artist at once. He compressed the wound, and
explained to Mrs. Lucas that the principal thing really was to avoid an
ugly scar. "There is no danger," said he. He then bound the wound
neatly up, and had the girl put to bed. "You will not wake her at any
particular hour, nurse. Let her sleep. Have a little strong beef-tea
ready, and give it her at any hour, night or day, she asks for it. But
do not force it on her, or you will do her more harm than good. She had
better sleep before she eats."

Mrs. Lucas begged him to come every morning; and, as he was going,
she shook hands with him, and the soft palm deposited a hard substance
wrapped in paper. He took it with professional gravity and seeming
unconsciousness; but, once outside the house, went home on wings. He
ran up to the drawing-room, and found his wife seated, and playing at
reading. He threw himself on his knees, and the fee into her lap; and,
while she unfolded the paper with an ejaculation of pleasure, he said,
"Darling, the first real patient--the first real fee. It is yours to buy
the new bonnet."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said she, with her eyes glistening. "But I'm afraid
one can't get a bonnet fit to wear--for a guinea."

Dr. Staines visited his little patient every day, and received his
guinea. Mrs. Lucas also called him in for her own little ailments, and
they were the best possible kind of ailments: for, being imaginary,
there was no limit to them.

Then did Mrs. Staines turn jealous of her husband. "They never ask me,"
said she; "and I am moped to death."

"It is hard," said Christopher, sadly. "But have a little patience.
Society will come to you long before practice comes to me."

About two o'clock one afternoon a carriage and pair drove up, and a
gorgeous footman delivered a card--"Lady Cicely Treherne."

Of course Mrs. Staines was at home, and only withheld by propriety
from bounding into the passage to meet her school-fellow. However, she
composed herself in the drawing-room, and presently the door was opened,
and a very tall young woman, richly but not gayly dressed, drifted into
the room, and stood there a statue of composure.

Rosa had risen to fly to her; but the reverence a girl of eighteen
strikes into a child of twelve hung about her still, and she came
timidly forward, blushing and sparkling, a curious contrast in color
and mind to her vi