LITMIR.BIZ

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      Another low tap at the door aroused him from his musings, and the low voice he knew so well gently told him it was his morning to attend the dispensary, a distance fully three miles off. More than one complaint had been already made of his irregularity and neglect, and, intending to pay more attention in future, he had charged his wife to keep him mindful of his duties.

      “You will scarcely reach Ballintray before one o'clock, Herbert,” said she, in her habitually timid tone.

      “What if I should not try? What if I throw up the beggarly office at once? What if I burst through this slavery of patrons and chairmen and boards? Do you fancy we should starve, Grace?”

      “Oh, no, Herbert,” cried she, eagerly; “I have no fears for our future.”

      “Then your courage is greater than mine,” said he, bitterly, and with one of the sudden changes of humor which often marked him. “Can't you anticipate how the world would pass sentence on me, the idle debauchee, who would not earn his livelihood, but must needs forfeit his subsistence from sheer indolence?—ay, and the world would be right too. He who breaks stones upon the highroad will not perform his task the better because he can tell the chemical constituent of every fragment beneath his hammer. Men want common work from common workmen, and there are always enough to be found. I'll set out at once.”

      With this resolve, uttered in a tone she never gainsaid or replied to, he took his hat and left the cottage.

      There is no more aggressive spirit than that of the man who, with the full consciousness of great powers, sees himself destined to fill some humble and insignificant station, well knowing the while the inferiority of those who have conquered the high places in life. Of all the disqualifying elements of his own character, his unsteadiness, his want of thrift, perseverance, or conduct, his deficiency in tact or due courtesy, his stubborn indifference to others—of all these he will take no account as he whispers to his heart,

      “I passed that fellow at school!—I beat this one at college!—how often have I helped yonder celebrity with his theme!—how many times have I written his exercise for that great dignitary!” Oh, what a deep well of bitterness lies in the nature of one so tried and tortured, and how cruel is the war that he at last wages with the world, and, worse again, with his own heart!

      Scarcely noticing the salutations of the country people, as they touched their hats to him on the road, or the more familiar addresses of the better-to-do farmers as they passed, Layton strode onwards to the little village where his dispensary stood.

      “Yer unco late, docther, this morning,” said one, in that rebukeful tone the northern Irishman never scruples to employ when he thinks he has just cause of complaint.

      “It's na the way to heal folk to keep them waitin' twa hours at a closed door,” said another.

      “I'se warrant he's gleb eneuch to call for his siller when it's due to him,” said a third.

      “My gran'mither is just gane hame; she would na bide any longer for yer comin',” said a pert-looking girl, with a saucy toss of her head.

      “It's na honest to take people's money and gie naething for it,” said an old white-haired man on crutches; “and I 'll just bring it before the board.”

      Layton turned an angry look over the crowd, but never uttered a word. Pride alone would have prevented him from answering them, had he not the deeper motive that in his conflict with himself he took little heed of what they said.

      “Where's the key, Sandy?” cried he, impatiently, to an old cripple who assisted him in the common work of the dispensary.

      The man came close and whispered something secretly in his ear.

      “And carried the key away, do you say?” asked Layton, eagerly.

      “Just so, sir. There was anither wi' him—a stranger—and he was mair angry than his rev'rance, and said, 'What can ye expec'? Is it like that a man o' his habits could be entrusted with such a charge as this?”

      “And Dr. Millar—what did he reply?”

      “Na much; he just shook his head this way, and muttered, 'I hoped for better—I hoped for better!' I dinna think they 'd have taken away the key, but that old Jonas Graham kem up at the time, and said, 'It's mair than a month since we seen him'—yourself he meant—'down here, and them as has the strength for it would rather gae all the gait to Coleraine than tak their chance o' him.' For a' that,” said Sandy, “I opened the dispensary door, and was sarvin' out salts and the like, when the stranger said, 'Is it to a cretur like that the people are to trust their health? Just turn the key in the door, Millar, and you'll certainly save some one from being poisoned this morning.' And so he did, and here we are.” And poor Sandy turned a rueful look on the surrounders as he finished.

      “I can't cure you as kings used to cure the evil, long ago, by royal touch, good people,” said Layton, mockingly; “and your guardians, or governors, or whatever they call themselves, have shut me out of my own premises. I am a priest cut off from his temple.”

      “I 'm na come here to ask for charity,” said a stout old fellow, who stood alongside of a shaggy mountain pony; “I 'm able to pay ye for a' your docther's stuff, and your skill besides.”

      “Well spoken, and like a man of independence,” said Layton. “Let us open the treaty with a gill of brandy, and you shall tell me your case while I am sipping it.” And with these words he led the way into a public-house, followed by the farmer, leaving the crowd to disperse when and how they pleased.

      Whatever the nature of those ailments now so confidentially imparted, they were long enough in narration not only to require one, or two, or three gills, but a full bottle of strong mountain whiskey, of which it is but fair to say the farmer took his share. Layton's powers as a talker were not long in exercise ere they gained their due influence over his companion. Of the very themes the countryman deemed his own, he found the doctor knew far more than himself; while by his knowledge of life and human nature generally, he surprised his listener, who actually could not tear himself away from one so full of anecdote and observation.

      Partly warned by the lateness of the hour—for already the market was over and the streets deserted—and partly by the thick utterance of his companion, whose heavy, bloodshot eye and sullen look now evidenced how deeply he had exceeded, the farmer at last arose to go away.

      “You 're not 'flitting.' as you call it hereabouts,” said Layton, half stupidly, “you're not thinking of leaving me alone to my own company, are you?”

      “I maun be thinkin' of home; it's more than twalve miles o' a mountain that's afore me. There's na anither but yoursel' had made me forget it a' this while,” said the farmer, as he buttoned his coat and prepared for the road. “Just tell me now what's to pay for the bit o' writin' ye gav' me.”

      “You 've had a consultation, my friend—not a visit, but a regular consultation. You've not been treated like the outer populace, and only heard the oracles from afar, but you have been suffered to sit down beside the augur, to question him, and to drink with him. Pay—nothing to pay! I'll cure your boy, there's my word on't. These cases are specialities with me. Bell used to say, 'Ask Layton to look at that fellow in such a ward; he's the only one of us understands this sort of thing. Layton will tell us all about it.' And I 'm Layton! Ay, sir, this poor, shabby, ill-dressed fellow that you see before you is that same Herbert Layton; so much for brains and ability to work a man's way in life! Order another quart of Isla whiskey, man—that's my fee; at least it shall be to-day. Tell them to send me pen, ink, and paper, and not disturb me; tell them, besides—no, nevermind, I'll tell them that! And now, good-day, my honest fellow. You 've been my physician to-day as much as I have been yours. You have cured a sick heart—cheated it, at least—out of one paroxysm, and so, a good journey, and safe home to you. Send me news of your boy, and good-bye.” And his head dropped as he spoke; his arms fell heavily at his sides; and he appeared to have sunk into a profound sleep. The stupor was but brief; the farmer was not well out of the village when Layton, calling

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