"No one but himself to mend his poor dear gloves! Oh--oh-boo-hoo-oo!" Traverse never alluded to his straitened circumstances, but boasted of the comfort of his quarters and the extent of his practice, and declared that his income already exceeded his outlay, which was perfectly true, since he was resolved to live within it, whatever it might be. As the fever began to subside Traverse's practice declined, and about the middle of November his "occupation was gone." We said that his office was in the most respectable locality in the city; it was, in fact, on the ground floor of a first-class hotel. It happened that one night, near the close of winter, Traverse lay awake on his sofa-bedstead, turning over in his mind how he should contrive to make both ends meet at the conclusion of the present term and feeling as near despondency as it was possible for his buoyant and God-trusting soul to be, when there came a loud ringing at his office bell. This reminded him of the stirring days and nights of the preceding autumn. He started up at once to answer the summons. "Who's there?" "Is Doctor Rocke in?" "Yes, what's wanted?" "A gentleman, sir, in the house here, sir, taken very bad, wants the doctor directly, room number 555." "Very well, I will be with the gentleman immediately," answered Traverse, plunging his head into a basin of cold water and drying it hastily. In five minutes Traverse was in the office of the hotel, inquiring for a waiter to show him up into 555. One was ordered to attend him, who led the way up several flights of stairs and around divers galleries, until he opened a door and ushered the doctor immediately into the sick room. There was a little, old, dried-up Frenchman in a blue night-cap, extended on a bed in the middle of the room and covered with a white counterpane that clung close to his rigid form as to a corpse. And there was a little, old, dried-up Frenchwoman in a brown merino gown and a high-crowned muslin cap who hopped and chattered about the bed like a frightened magpie. "Ou! Monsieur le Docteur!" she screamed, jumping at Traverse in a way to make him start back; "Ou, Monsieur le Docteur, I am very happy you to see! Voila mon frere! Behold my brother! He is ill! He is verra ill! He is dead! He is verra dead!" "I hope not," said Traverse, approaching the bed. "Voila, behold! Mon dieu, he is verra still! He is verra cold! He is verra dead! What can you, mon frere, my brother to save?" "Be composed, madam, if you please, and allow me to examine my patient," said Traverse. "Ma foi! I know not what you speak 'compose.' What can you my brother to save?" "Much, I hope, madam, but you must leave me to examine my patient and not interrupt me," said Traverse, passing his hand over the naked chest of the sick man. "Mon Dieu! I know not 'exam' and 'interrupt'! and I know not what can you mon frere to save!"