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WINNIE CORSELLIS; OR, DEATH IN THE POT.

which had frightened it from earth was only the
beginning of the greater terror which marked its
passage to eternity.

Mr. Hammond was right when he said that his
partner would be worried. George Ferrars went
to his work for the first time with a divided mind ;
while he was attending to his patients his thoughts
would turn to Winnie. What if she were ill, far
away from medical help, and with no one at hand
who had experience in the treatment of the cholera.
What if going up to the farm had only placed her
beyond the reach of timely aid,—and no one knew
better than he did that in cholera every thing
depended on prompt measures taken at the begin-
ning,—and thus had increased the risk instead of
diminishing it. He knew that his fears were un-
reasonable, and that his judgment did not endorse
the anxiety which nevertheless would not be shaken
off. He was doing his work badly and was fully
aware of it; but he could not, as at other times,
shake off all care, all distracting thoughts, and
devote his whole attention to the cases under his care.

“TF am doing no good, and what is worse I}

cannot help it. I have a great mind to take the
mare, and ride up to the farm to-night: she would
not want many hours’ rest, and I could be back
again before the morning,” he thought, as he went
wearily from street to street. Had the work gone
on as usual he would have done so, but to add
horror to horror a dreadful colliery accident
occurred that afternoon, and a deeper cloud of
gloom fell over the place as the procession of
litters, each bearing a sufferer, passed through the
town. There was no chance of leaving now, and
it was far on in the night when the doctors met
again at their own home. Both were too tired by
that time to do any thing but go to bed, and the
fresh call coming from a new source had roused
George Ferrars and made him forget his anxiety
about Winnie while expending all his surgical
skill upon the maimed and wounded men.

In the morning there was a letter from Winnie
herself, written cheerfully as usual, and telling him
of the visit from his aunts which was to take place
the day she wrote, and of her hopes that it might
result in some good to the Ramsays.

“They are all right,” he said to Mr. Hammond,
who was reading his own letter. “It seems. my
aunts were to be over there yesterday ; [had no idea
that the Castle was their farm, though I’ve heard
enough about that most unsatisfactory piece of pro-
perty, and ought to have remembered its name.”

“T don’t think we need worry ourselves about
that cholera business any more,” replied Mr.
Hammond, as he folded up his letter. “Jane says
that no one goes near the house where it occurred,
so I think you may set your mind at rest.”

“Yes, I shall be able to attend to my business

to-day, I hope: yesterday it was the merest farce ;
I could not give my attention to any thing.
Luckily there was nothing very serious till the
colliery cases came on, and they awoke me up. |
If that accident had not happened, I should have |
ridden up to the farm last evening, and come back |
again as soon as the mare had rested; but I am |
glad I did not, as things have turned out.”

“You must have a day there as soon as eyer it
can be managed,” said Mr. Hammond; “this press
of work cannot go on for ever.”

“J will take a holiday if I want it, Hammond.
You will see that I practise what I preach, but I
don’t need rest; now J am not anxious about her,
it will be all right.”

And so with cheerful hearts the two men went
out to their work, and resumed the hand-to-hand
fight with Death, over many a bed of pain and
weariness. To some they brought hope and
strength, and the promise of life; to others they
gave ease from suffering, and cheered afresh spirits
that were sinking into despair. To some they
could bring nothing. Here and there the destroyer
was too strong for them, and they could only look
on at the deadly agony which they were powerless
to alleviate.

It was late in the afternoon, and Mr. Hammond
was coming quickly up High Street, on his way to
visit one of the injured colliers who lived in a small
court at the back of St. Thomas’s Church, when
his eye caught an elderly man riding towards
him, on a heavily-built horse that seemed to belong
to the plough rather than the road. Something
in the look of the rider seemed to strike him as
familiar, but he knew so many of the country
people by sight, that it was only when he was
abreast of the horse that the remembrance of
where he had seen the man’s face flashed across
him. And then in the same moment with one of
those sudden intuitions that come to us now and
then, and tell us of evil before the tidings have
been spoken, he knew that Ramsay had come for him,
and that there was trouble at the farm. He knew it
even before he had sprung into the street, and laid
his hand on the bridle, long before Ramsay spoke.

“T was a looking for you, sir.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“ye got a note here as will tell you better nor
Lean.”

“My wife, the children.”

“Your missus wrote it, sir. Here it be,” and
he pulled it out of his coat-pocket after some search.
“They’m all right,” he added, seeing how Mr. |
Hammond’s fingers shook. ‘It’s Miss Corsellis.”

Almost involuntarily he gave a sigh of relief. |
His wife and children were safe, and the mist
cleared from his eyes, and he could read the
hurried lines which he held in his hand.

SSS SS ee eee eee eee — ee