“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Dr Morgan. “It is not the Captain who speaks here—it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat of poetry, and love, and jealousy—the liver. Never believe what it says. You have no idea what a liar it is! But—ahem—ahem. Cott—I think I’ve seen you before, sir. Surely your name’s Hazeldean?” “William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen me?” “On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your distinguished brother, Mr Egerton.” “Hang it!” cried the Squire: “I think it must have been my liver that spoke there! for I promised the electors that that half-brother of mine would stick by the land; and I never told a bigger lie in my life!” Here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was going to be bored with the enumeration of the Squire’s wrongs, and probably the whole history of his duel with Captain Dashmore, turned, with a languid wave of his hand, and said, “Doctor, another friend of mine, the Rev. Mr Dale,—and a gentleman who is acquainted with homœopathy.” “Dale? What, more old friends!” cried the Doctor, rising; and the Parson came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired. The Parson and the Homœopathist shook hands. “We have met before on a very mournful occasion,” said the Doctor, with feeling. The Parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced towards Leonard. The Doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognise in the person before him the gaunt careworn boy whom he had placed with Mr Prickett, until Leonard smiled and spoke. And the smile and the voice sufficed. “Cott—and it _is_ the poy!” cried Dr Morgan; and he actually caught hold of Leonard, and gave him an affectionate Welch hug. Indeed, his agitation at these several surprises became so great that he stopped short, drew forth a globule—“Aconite—good against nervous shocks!”—and swallowed it incontinently. “Gad,” said the Squire, rather astonished, “’tis the first doctor I ever saw swallow his own medicine! There must be something in it.” The Captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, “And as to diet? What shall I have for dinner?” “A friend!” said the Doctor, wiping his eyes. “Zounds!” cried the Squire, retreating, “do you mean to say, sir, that the British laws (to be sure, they are very much changed of late) allow you to diet your patients upon their fellow-men? Why, Parson, this is worse than the donkey sausages.”