"It be very quiet here," he muttered, "very lonesome and fur aff; them doctors and nusses they mumbles so, I can’t yer ’em, and I’d like to yer summut.... I can allays yer Mazter Billy, ’e do talk so sensible——" "He shall come and see you," said the visitor, loudly, right into the old man’s ear; but Williams shook his head wearily, and closed his eyes again. "What’s the best time?" asked Billy’s father of the matron. "I’ll bring the little lad—it might rouse him; he has always been so fond of him." "The morning’s the best time," she answered. "He sleeps so much. We can but try it, sir." Next day the autocrat—his rosy face very solemn, and his little soul oppressed by the solemnity of the occasion—pattered across the parqueted floor to the bedside of old Williams. The occupants of the three other beds in the men’s ward—it is quite a little hospital—raised themselves and watched the pretty child with interest as he put out his little gloved hand timidly to touch this strange new Williams, lying so white and still in the clean, straight bed. "Speak to him, sonnie!" said a voice at his ear. "Williams!" whispered the child very low and timidly. Then, remembering that he never used to speak to Williams like that, he said loudly, "Williams, dear! the celery is very good." Williams opened his eyes, and when he saw Billy a smile broke over his face like the November sunshine itself. "Didn’t I say as ’e talked sensible?" he asked of the world in general. Then, "So you be come at last, Mazter Billy!" "Tell him you want him to ’get well!" whispered Billy’s father. "I wish you’d make haste and come home, Williams," Billy shouted; "I’ve got to go walks wiv Nanna nearly every day now, and it’s so dull." "Do ee miss Oi, Mazter Billy?" "’Course I do. We all do. Please get well, Williams! Aren’t you tired of stopping here?—though it’s very pretty," he added hastily, fearing lest he had said something rude; "but Mrs. Williams is very lonely, and so am I." "I be main tired, Mazter Billy. I don’t seem to ’ave no sart o’ stren’th in me, I be a hold man——" "There’s such a lot of chrysanthemums in the drive, Williams, and in your garden too," Billy continued, remembering his instructions to "interest" the sick man, "and Trimmie has scratched up such a lot of bulbs in the bed in the middle of the front lawn, and thrown the earth all over the place." Trimmie was the autocrat’s fox-terrier, and his misdeeds were the only subject upon which Williams ventured to disagree with that gentleman—on occasion expressing a strong desire to thrash "that there varmint of a dog" for sundry scratchings which his master only regarded with admiring amusement. For the first time for a whole long week Williams raised his head quite two inches from the pillow, exclaiming: "That there dog’ll ’ave to be beat, scrattin’ and scramblin’ and spilin’ my garden——" and Williams dropped his head on the pillow again with an emphatic bump.