Sir Charles was in a talking mood, and very soon said one or two inconsecutive things. Dr. Mosely looked at Mary Wells and said he would write a prescription. As soon as he had written it he said, very loud, “Mr. Donkyn!” The door instantly opened, and that worthy appeared on the threshold. “Oblige me,” said the doctor to his confrere, “by seeing this prescription made up; and you can examine the patient yourself; but do not fatigue him.” With this he retired swiftly, and strolled down the corridor, to wait for his companion. He had not to wait long. Mr. Donkyn adopted a free and easy style with Sir Charles, and that gentleman marked his sense of the indignity by turning him out of the room, and kicking him industriously half-way down the passage. Messrs. Mosely and Donkyn retired to Highmore. Bassett was particularly pleased at the baronet having kicked Donkyn; so was Wheeler; so was Dr. Mosely. Donkyn alone did not share the general enthusiasm. When Sir Charles had disposed of Mr. Donkyn he turned on Mary Wells, and rated her soundly for bringing strangers into his room to gratify their curiosity; and when Lady Bassett came in he made his formal complaint, concluding with a proposal that one of two persons should leave Huntercombe, forever, that afternoon--Mary Wells or Sir Charles Bassett. Mary replied, not to him, but to her mistress, “He came from Dr. Willis, my lady. It was Dr. Mosely; and the other gent was a surgeon.” “Two medical men, sent by Dr. Willis?” said Lady Bassett, knitting her brow with wonder and a shade of doubt. “A couple of her own sweethearts, sent by herself,” suggested Sir Charles. Lady Bassett sat down and wrote a hasty letter to Dr. Willis. “Send a groom with it, as fast as he can ride,” said she; and she was much discomposed and nervous and impatient till the answer came bade. Dr. Willis came in person. “I sent no one to take my place,” said he. “I esteem my patient too highly to let any stranger prescribe for him or even see him--for a few days to come.” Lady Bassett sank into a chair, and her eloquent face filled with an undefinable terror. Mary Wells, being on her defense, put in her word. “I am sure he was a doctor; for he wrote a prescription, and here 'tis.” Dr. Willis examined the prescription, with no friendly eye. “Acetate of morphia! The very worst thing that could be given him. This is the favorite of the specialists. This fatal drug has eaten away a thousand brains for one it has ever benefited.” “Ah!” said Lady Bassett. “'Specialists!' what are they?” “Medical men, who confine their practice to one disease.” “Mad-doctors, he means,” said the patient, very gravely. Lady Bassett turned very pale. “Then those were mad-doctors.” “Never you mind, Bella,” said Sir Charles. “I kicked the fellow handsomely.” “I am sorry to hear it, Sir Charles.” “Why?”