LEONARD.—“I once knew a very able, though eccentric homœopathist, and I am inclined to believe there may be something in the system. My friend went to Germany: it may possibly be the same person who attends the Captain. May I ask his name?” SQUIRE.—“Cousin Barnabas does not mention it. You may ask it of himself, for here we are at his chambers. I say, Parson, (whispering slily,) if a small dose of what hurt the Captain is to cure him, don’t you think the proper thing would be a—legacy? Ha! ha!” PARSON, (trying not to laugh.)—“Hush, Squire. Poor human nature! We must be merciful to its infirmities. Come in, Leonard.” Leonard, interested in his doubt whether he might thus chance again upon Dr Morgan, obeyed the invitation, and with his two companions followed the woman—who “did for the Captain and his rooms”—across the small lobby, into the presence of the sufferer. CHAPTER III. Whatever the disposition towards merriment at his cousin’s expense entertained by the Squire, it vanished instantly at the sight of the Captain’s doleful visage and emaciated figure. “Very good in you to come to town to see me—very good in you, cousin; and in you too, Mr Dale. How very well you are both looking. I’m a sad wreck. You might count every bone in my body.” “Hazeldean air and roast beef will soon set you up, my boy,” said the Squire kindly. “You were a great goose to leave them, and these comfortable rooms of yours in the Albany.” “They _are_ comfortable, though not showy,” said the Captain, with tears in his eyes. “I had done my best to make them so. New carpets—this very chair—(morocco!)—that Japan cat (holds toast and muffins)—just when—just when—(the tears here broke forth, and the Captain fairly whimpered)—just when that ungrateful bad-hearted man wrote me word ‘he was—was dying and lone in the world;’ and—and—to think what I’ve gone through for him!—and to treat me so. Cousin William, he has grown as hale as yourself, and—and—” “Cheer up, cheer up!” cried the compassionate Squire. “It is a very hard case, I allow. But you see, as the old proverb says, ‘’tis ill waiting for a dead man’s shoes;’ and in future—I don’t mean offence—but I think if you would calculate less on the livers of your relations, it would be all the better for your own. Excuse me.” “Cousin William,” replied the poor Captain, “I am sure I never calculated; but still, if you had seen that deceitful man’s good-for-nothing face—as yellow as a guinea—and have gone through all I’ve gone through, you would have felt cut to the heart as I do. I can’t bear ingratitude. I never could. But let it pass. Will that gentleman take a chair?” PARSON.—“Mr Fairfield has kindly called with us, because he knows something of this system of homœopathy which you have adopted, and may, perhaps, know the practitioner. What is the name of your doctor?”