Such cases will happen, though no doubt a man must have been born under a very unlucky star to come in for such a trial. In most museums unique specimens are now never shown except under precautions which make such accidents, as well as deliberate thefts, almost impossible. After all the sad experiences which one has had, it is perhaps quite right that we should shut our ears and our house against all beggars, whether in rags or in the disguise of gentlemen. But even our servants have hearts, and though they have orders not to admit beggars, they often are, or imagine they are, better judges than ourselves. I know that they sometimes give something where their masters, rightly or wrongly, decline to do anything. Physical suffering appeals to them, though they also have learnt how beggars who ask for a crust of bread throw away what has been given them as soon as they leave the house. I remember once my servant coming in and saying: “There is a poor man at the door, I believe he is dying, sir!” I confess I did not believe it, but I went to see him, and he looked so ill that the doctor had to be sent for. The doctor declared he was in the last stage of consumption, and I was glad to send him to the Infirmary. He was a poor tailor, a German by birth, but who had lived many years in England and spoke English perfectly well. Being well taken care of, he got better for a time. I went to see him and tried to cheer him as well as I could. He was surprised to see me, and said with a frown: “Why do you come to see me?” I said that he seemed quite alone in the world, without any friends or relations in England. “Friends and relations!” he said. “I have never had any in all my life.” “You had father and mother?” I said. “No,” he answered, “I never had. I never knew anybody that belonged to me. I was brought up at a Government school for poor children, was apprenticed to a tailor, and when I was quite young sent to England, where I have been working in different places for nearly twenty years. I have never begged, and have always been able to support myself.” He told me the name of the tailor for whom he had been working in Oxford, and I received the most satisfactory account both from his employer and from the men with whom he had been working. “Why do you come to see me?” he said again and again. “No one has ever been kind to me. I want to die; I have nothing to care for in this world. The few things that belong to me I wish to leave to the poor servant girl in the house where I have last been at work, the little money in my purse may go to the Infirmary. I know no one else; no one cares for me, or has ever cared for me.”