"That's not the point. There are men in
the world to whom you might show the monument
in Trafalgar-square at noonday and they
wouldn't see it."

"Indeed—yes," said the captain, with
extraordinary eagerness, heartily assenting to
this proposition, though he did not in the least
see its bearing upon Dr. Slader.

But the truth was, Mr. Tillotson was
infinitely better, and from that day began to
recover; yet very slowly.

At the door Sir Duncan stopped, as if he had
suddenly recollected something.

"By the way," he said, "the little girl who
came to me last night—very cleverly done, too,
it was—I wanted to ask you about her.
Delicate, eh?"

"Well, do you know," said uncle Diamond,
confidentially, "I think so, now and then. She
says she's not."

"Of course," said Sir Duncan; "we all know
that. Tender about here?" he added, laying
his hand on his waistcoat.

"Exactly," said Captain Diamond, with
eager eyes; "you're like a prophet, doctor. And
I was thinking, do you know, if you'd just
drop down and pay her a visit, with that trumpet
thing they use."

"Stethoscope, my friend. Call things by their
right names."

"Exactly—of course, Sir Duncan, and bring
—it," said uncle Diamond, not caring to trust
himself with that word; "and, doctor—
professionally, I mean," he added, his fingers seeking
the chain purse.

"Oh, I know. Very well," said Sir Duncan,
"I will. Give me your address. I say, captain,
lucky Lady Dennison is in the country—eh? I
wouldn't have her know of my trip in the cab last
night for a fifty pound-note—eh? Ha! ha!"

"Ah, Sir Duncan!" said the captain, enjoying
it; "a sad fellow, I'm afraid. You could tell us
some stories—eh?"

He came to the captain's house in a day or
two. Mr. Tillotson was mending fast. He
sat and talked.

"Send up for her," he said, gaily; "I want
to see my cab-fellow."

"Uncommonly good of him," said Captain
Diamond afterwards. "Cab-fellow, you know
—a tip-top alive fellow, that has read books."
But of late, since Mr. Tillotson's recovery had
been assured, she had grown shy and retiring;
perhaps a little ashamed of her forwardness;
perhaps, too, under the open scorn of Martha
Malcolm. At the door a cough revealed her.

"Come up here, ma'am," said the doctor,
going towards her; "I have you now——"

"What do you want, sir?" she said, colouring,
and struggling to escape.

"What, d'ye forget the cab—eh? There's
gratitude! What's the meaning of that cough?
When did you get it? Here, does that hurt
you, or that—eh?"

He was going through the usual strokes of
his profession, and had the "trumpet thing" in
his hand.

"Don't be foolish," said he. The captain
had discreetly retired.

He met Sir Duncan in the hall, the chain
purse in his hand.

"Thanks," said the physician, taking his
hand as if he was giving the Masonic grasp.
"Look here, captain. We must look after our
little friend up-stairs. Flannel jacket to begin,
and, when the winter comes, pack her off to
Mentone, or some of those places. Mind, not an
hour's delay after the winter begins. Fact is,
rather sensitive here. Hereditary consumption,
you know."

"God bless me!" said the captain, with a
face of grief.

"Not in her, old soldier," said the doctor;
"in her father, and so-and-so. Must come
down to her in time, unless very careful."

In course of time Mr. Tillotson became
"convalescent," and was seen, very pale and a
little weak, at the bank. Mr. Bowater was
delighted to see him.

"An excellent colleague," he always said;
"always go in the shafts till he dropped. In
fact, we'd given him the Great Bhootan Report
to work through, and he went to it with too
much love, you know. Very glad to see you,
Tillotson. I assure you no one has been allowed
to touch the papers since. I gave special orders.
Fetch down the Bhootan papers for Mr. Tillotson.
Mackenzie has been here every day since.
There's a fire in the room, too."

Mr. Mackenzie was in attendance. With a
sort of sigh, and yet with a certain alacrity,
Mr. Tillotson went to the work at once.

In truth, while he lay on his bed, getting
better, he had reflected a good deal. He was
naturally a religious man, and had been reading
what are called "good books"—at least one,
which is really the best of all good books—the
"De Imitatione"—not the maimed, garbled
version which has on many occasions been
"prepared" for English readers, just as wines
are "prepared" for English drinkers, but the
old, ripe, unadulterated Latin. As he read,
perhaps the human passion—so absorbing as to
wreck a whole life and nearly bring him into the
Temple of Death—seemed to take less proportions.
Perhaps there was a little shame, too,
at the slight on the Mystery of his old great
sorrow. But as he read, and as he grew better,
it seemed as if what he had passed through was
not at all so near, and was a thing he could
look back to far more calmly. And therefore
he entered into business with Mr. Mackenzie
with some zest.

"As we finished with him," said that
gentleman, "so we begin with Mr. Ross. His
friend was here only a week ago, and I must
say they have behaved in a very gentlemanly
way."

"Gentlemanly! After those inhuman
barbarities——"

"Rumours. Well, after all, still, we must
not believe everything we hear, especially in
those places. The lower Indians are notorious