, served for the bed.

"Uncle Solomon, it's the Doctor," I called.

The mass of clothes moved, and a trembling old hand came out to meet
mine.

"Not so well, Uncle Solomon? No pain, I hope?"

"No pain, Doctor, thank t' good Lord--and Skipper John," he added. "He
took us in, Doctor, when t' old lady and I were starving."

The terrible cancer in spite of which his iron constitution still kept
him alive had so extended its fearful ravages that the reason for the
veiled corner was at once apparent, and also the effective measures
for ventilation.

The old lady had now caught the meaning of my presence. "He suffers a
lot, Doctor, though he won't say it. If it wasn't for me singing to
him, I don't know how he would bear up." And, strangely enough, even I
had noticed the apparent descent from an odd, dreamy state to crude
realities, as the old lady abandoned her droning, and talked of
symptoms.

"But, Aunt Anne," I said, "you can't keep it up all night as well as
all day?"

"No, not exactly, Doctor, but I mostly sleeps very little." And to my
no small astonishment she now shut up like an umbrella, and at once
recommenced her mesmeric monotone.

When the interview was over, and all my notes made and lines of action
decided, I still did not feel like moving. I was standing in a brown
study when I heard the skipper's voice calling me.

"Be you through, Doctor? There be two or three as wants to see you,"
it said; but it meant, "Is there anything wrong?" The long silence
might mean that the sight had been too much for me.

"There's no hurry, Doctor," it hastened to add, for his quick ear had
caught the noise of my start as I came to earth again.

"What can be the meaning of it all?" I was pondering. Is there any
more explanation to the riddle of life than to Alice in Wonderland?
Are we not all a lot of "slithy toves, that gyre and gimble in the
wabe"--or worse? Must we who love living only regard it as one long
tragedy?

The clinic of Skipper John's lower room included one or two pathetic
tales, and evidently my face showed discouragement, but I confess I
was surprised when the last poor creature had left, to find my host's
hand on my shoulder.

"You'll be wanting a good hot cup o' tea, I knows, Doctor. And t'
wife's made you a bit o' toast, and a taste o' hot berry jam. We are
so grateful you comed, Doctor. T' poor old creatures won't last long.
But thanks aren't dollars."

At that minute his happy, optimistic