"Upon my word," said I, "I have been here long enough." I wrapped my fur coat about me, and prepared to go, when I saw a well-known figure, that of Mr. Fothergill, advancing up the path. I knew the old gentleman well. His age must have been seventy. He was a spare man, he was rather bald, and had sunken cheeks. He was a bachelor, living in a pretty little villa of his own. He had a good fortune, and was a harmless, but self-centred, old fellow. He prided himself on his cellar and his cook. He always dressed well, and was scrupulously neat. I had often played a game of chess with him. I would have run towards him to remonstrate with him for exposing himself to the night air, but I was forestalled. Slipping past me, his old manservant, David, went to meet him. David had died three years before. Mr. Fothergill had then been dangerously ill with typhoid fever, and the man had attended to him night and day. The old gentleman, as I heard, had been most irritable and exacting in his illness. When his malady took a turn, and he was on the way to convalescence, David had succumbed in his turn, and in three days was dead. This man now met his master, touched his cap, and said: "Beg pardon, sir, you will not be admitted." "Not admitted? Why not, Davie?" "I really am very sorry, sir. If my key would have availed, you would have been welcome to it; but, sir, there's such a terrible lot of Black Ram in you, sir. That must be got out first." "I don't understand, Davie." "I'm sorry, sir, to have to say it; but you've never done anyone any good." "I paid you your wages regularly." "Yes, sir, to be sure, sir, for my services to yourself." "And I've always subscribed when asked for money." "Yes, that is very true, sir, but that was because you thought it was expected of you, not because you had any sympathy with those in need, and sickness, and suffering." "I'm sure I never did anyone any harm." "No, sir, and never anyone any good. You'll excuse me for mentioning it." "But, Davie, what do you mean? I can't get in?" "No, sir, not till you have the key." "But, bless my soul! what is to become of me? Am I to stick out here?" "Yes, sir, unless----" "In this damp, and cold, and darkness?" "There is no help for it, Mr. Fothergill, unless----" "Unless what, Davie?" "Unless you become a mother, sir!" "What?" "Of twins, sir." "Fiddlesticks!" "Indeed, it is so, sir, and you will have to nurse them." "I can't do it. I'm physically incapable." "It must be done, sir. Very sorry to mention it, but there is no alternative. There's Sally Bowker is approaching her confinement, and it's going terribly hard with her. The doctor thinks she'll never pull through. But if you'd consent to pass into her and become a mother----" "And nurse the twins? Oh, Davie, I shall need a great amount of stout." "I grieve to say it, Mr. Fothergill, but you'll be too poor to afford it." "Is there no alternative?" "None in the world, sir."