lled out, "I say--ben't you the young
doctor up at Stoneborough?"

"I am Dr. May's son," said Richard; while Ethel, startled, clung to his
arm, in dread of some rudeness.

"Granny's bad," said the boy; proceeding without further explanation to
lead the way to another hovel, though Richard tried to explain that the
knowledge of medicine was not in his case hereditary. A poor old woman
sat groaning over the fire, and two children crouched, half-clothed, on
the bare floor.

Richard's gentle voice and kind manner drew forth some wonderful
descriptions--"her head was all of a goggle, her legs all of a fur, she
felt as if some one was cutting right through her."

"Well," said Richard kindly, "I am no doctor myself, but I'll ask
my father about you, and perhaps he can give you an order for the
hospital."

"No, no, thank ye, sir; I can't go to the hospital, I can't leave these
poor children; they've no father nor mother, sir, and no one to do for
them but me."

"What do you live on, then?" said Richard, looking round the desolate
hut.

"On Sam's wages, sir; that's that boy. He is a good boy to me, sir, and
his little sisters; he brings it, all he gets, home to me, rig'lar, but
'tis but six shillings a week, and they makes 'em take half of it out in
goods and beer, which is a bad thing for a boy like him, sir."

"How old are you, Sam?"

Sam scratched his head, and answered nothing. His grandmother knew he
was the age of her black bonnet, and as he looked about fifteen, Ethel
honoured him and the bonnet accordingly, while Richard said he must be
very glad to be able to maintain them all, at his age, and, promising to
try to bring his father that way, since prescribing at second hand
for such curious symptoms was more than could be expected, he took his
leave.

"A wretched place," said Richard, looking round. "I don't know what help
there is for the people. There's no one to do any thing for them, and it
is of no use to tell them to come to church when it it so far off, and
there is so little room for them."

"It is miserable," said Ethel; and all her thoughts during her last walk
thither began to rush over her again, not effaced, but rather burned in,
by all that had subsequently happened. She had said it should be her aim
and effort to make Cocksmoor a Christian place. Such a resolve must not
pass away lightly; she knew it must be acted on, but how? What would her
present means--one sovereign--effect? Her fancies,