the sufferer, and laid hand on his wrist.

"You are feverish, I fear. I am a medical man. St!--one--two. Cott! you
should not travel; you are not fit for it!"

Mr. Digby shook his head; he was too feeble to reply.

The passenger thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, and drew out what
seemed a cigar-case, but what, in fact, was a leathern repertory,
containing a variety of minute phials. From one of these phials he
extracted two tiny globules. "There," said he; "open your mouth--put
those on the tip of your tongue. They will lower the pulse--check the
fever. Be better presently--but should not travel--want rest--you should
be in bed. Aconite!--Henbane!--hum! Your papa is of fair complexion--a
timid character, I should say--a horror of work, perhaps. Eh, child?"

"Sir!" faltered Helen, astonished and alarmed--Was the man a conjuror?

"A case for _phosphor_!" cried the passenger; "that fool Browne would
have said _arsenic_. Don't be persuaded to take arsenic."

"Arsenic, sir!" echoed the mild Digby. "No; however unfortunate a man
may be, I think, sir, that suicide is--tempting, perhaps, but highly
criminal."

"Suicide," said the passenger tranquilly--"suicide is my hobby! You have
no symptom of that kind, you say?"

"Good heavens! No, sir."

"If ever you feel violently impelled to drown yourself, take
_pulsatilla_. But if you feel a preference towards blowing out your
brains, accompanied with weight in the limbs, loss of appetite, dry
cough, and bad corns--_sulphuret of antimony_. Don't forget."

Though poor Mr. Digby confusedly thought that the gentleman was out of
his mind, yet he tried politely to say "that he was much obliged, and
would be sure to remember;" but his tongue failed him, and his own ideas
grew perplexed. His head fell back heavily, and he sank into a silence
which seemed that of sleep.

The traveller looked hard at Helen, as she gently drew her father's head
on her shoulder, and there pillowed it with a tenderness which was more
that of mother than child.

"Moral affections--soft--compassionate!--a good child and would go well
with--_pulsatilla_."

Helen held up her finger, and glanced from her father to the traveller,
and then to her father again.

"Certainly--_pulsatilla_!" muttered the homoeopathist: and, esconcing
himself in his own corner, he also sought to sleep. But, after vain
efforts, accompanied by restless gestures and movements, he suddenly
started up, and again extracted his