WINNIE CORSELLIS; OR, DEATH IN THE POT.

would not come on any account to cause you
uneasiness. But what shall you do if you are
taken ill?”

“Oh, that’s different, in course, sir; then you'd
come professional like.”

“Tsee. Jam a dangerous person in my private
capacity, but safe professionally ; that is it, eh?”

Edwards looked uncomfortable, but stuck to his
point, and Mr. Ferrars was not sorry to be thus
obliged to take up his abode with his partner.
For the first few days the horror of the pestilence
| had weighed heavily on the doctors and the clergy,
and all those whom duty or charity led to encounter
the terrible scenes of suffering and misery which
marked the footsteps of the destroyer. But it is a
blessed thing that even the worst horrors cease to
affect the beholder after a time, for otherwise the
strain upon body and mind would often become too
great for endurance ; and before the pestilence had
been many days in the town, those who worked
among the sick and dying could pass calmly through

{scenes which would have wrung their hearts in
quieter hours.

“Are you writing to the farm?” asked Mr.
Hammond, entering the room as George finished
his letter.

“Yes, I was sending Winnie a line; have you
any message for Mrs. Hammond ?”

“No,” replied her husband, sinking wearily
back in his arm-chair, “‘I don’t think there is any
thing to say.”

George Ferrars was directing his envelope, but
turned sharply round as Mr. Hammond spoke, and
looked steadily at his face.

“Hammond, what’s the matter? you are not
going to be ill?”

“No,” said the other, with a faint smile, “I
have no symptoms, nothing to frighten yourself
about, Ferrars. I am tired, that’s all.”

He put his head back in the arm-chair and
closed his eyes.

“You are tired,” said George, after a pause,
during which he had been carefully studying the
face before him. “You are utterly worn out with
work, and just as liable to take cholera or any
other disease as is possible for a man to be.
won’t do, Hammond; I promised your wife to take

leare of you, and it would be little short of suicide
to go among the patients in your state.”

“J feel knocked up, but what can a fellow do?”

“ Go and see his wife,” replied George, promptly.

“Go to the moon !—one is as practicable as the
other, with our press of work on hand.”

“T don’t see it,” replied George; “‘there’s no
road to the moon, but the mare will take you up to
the farm before bed-time. As to the work, we
cannot do more than we can, and which is best?
to take a rest now and so set yourself right, or to

VOL. IX. N.S.—NO, Lil.

It}

/ 225
go on for a few days or hours longer, and then be
finished up altogether. I know which, if you
don’t, and you want a doctor’s advice as much as
any sick person in Dudley. Go to the farm as
soon as we have had dinner, and come back
to-morrow night. That is only twenty-four hours
taken from work, but I believe it will make the
difference of life or death to you.”

“T don’t like it.”

“Very likely not, but that is not the question.”

“People will talk at my leaving just now.”

“Let them talk,—doctors are not made of cast
iron more than themselves.”

** And the patients?”

“Twill see the worst cases ; my own list is not
so very heavy to-day.”

“Quite heavy enough, without adding mine to
iin?

“You can do as much for me another time, you
know. But seriously, there must be no doubt
about it, Hammond. Ill order the mare to be
brought round at six, and you will get to the
farm in time to have supper with your wife and
Winnie.”

“T believe it would do me all the good in the
world,” replied Mr. Hammond ; “ but it seems like
shirking to go away.”

“Never mind what it seems like, we know very
well what it is. If you stay here, you will not be
fit to see a patient by the day after to-morrow; if
you go, you will come back strong and refreshed.
You would not hesitate about taking the nastiest
dose I could prescribe if you thought it would set
you up.”

“ Certainly not.”

“ Well, then, isn’t it a bit of false shame or false
pride to hold back from what you know as well as
I will do you good, merely because it happens to
be a pleasant thing instead of a disagreeable one ?
Don’t make a martyr of yourself, Hammond;
there’s a great deal too much of that false spirit of
self-sacrifice in the world, and it’s a great nuisance
and gives no end of trouble. Just look at young
Howard—we told him again and again that he
was overdoing it and yet he would go on, three
services every Sunday, schools, classes, all sorts of
things, out all day during the week among the
people, and then sitting up half the night to write.
Then, of course, he breaks down, and has to give
up altogether; his parish is left to take care of
itself, and he is a burden for life on his family, for
he will never be fit for work again. If he’d
listened to reason, he would be well and strong
now instead of a hopeless invalid. Don’t you
remember how he used to say that he could but
die in harness?”

“Yes, and what a temper it put you in,
Mr. Hammond, laughing.

” said

I (  ——E—E——————————

Q