Jenny knew it, and for more than one reason she trembled for the time that must come when Pierce should first meet Claud Wilton, for it had rapidly dawned upon her that the long-deferred grand passion of her brother was the stronger for its sudden growth. In her anxiety, she went out during those two days a great deal for the benefit of her health, but really on the qui vive for the news that she felt must soon come of Claud's proceedings with his cousin; and twice over she had started the subject of their projected leaving, making Leigh raise his eyebrows slightly in wonder at the sudden change in his sister's ideas. But it was not till nearly evening that, during her brother's temporary absence, she heard the news for which she was waiting. One of Leigh's poor patients called to see him--one of the class suffered by most young doctors, who go through life believing they are very ill, and that it is the duty of a medical man to pay extra attention to their ailments, and lavish upon them knowledge and medicine to the fullest extent, without a thought of payment entering their heads. Betsy Bray was the lady in question, and as was her custom, Jenny saw the woman, ready to hear her last grievance, and tell her brother when he returned. Betsy was fifty-five, and possessed of the strong constitution which bears a great deal of ease; but in her own estimation she was very bad. From frequenting surgeries, she had picked up a few medical terms, and larded her discourse with them and others of a religious tendency, her attendance at church dole-giving, and other charitable distributions being of the most regular description. "Doctor at home, miss?" she said, plaintively, as she slowly and plumply subsided upon the little couch in the surgery, the said piece of furniture groaning in all its springs, for Betsy possessed weight. "No, Mrs Bray. He has gone to call on the Dudges, at West Gale." "Ah, he always is calling on somebody when I've managed to drag my weary bones all this way up from the village." "I am very sorry. What is the matter now?" said Jenny, soothingly. "Matter, miss? What's allus the matter with me? It's my chronics. Not a wink of sleep have I had all the blessed night." "Well, I must give you something." "Nay, nay, my dear; you don't understand my troubles. It's the absorption is all wrong; and you'd be giving me something out of the wrong bottles. You just give me a taste of sperrits to give me strength to get home again, and beg and pray o' the doctor to come on and see me as soon as he comes home, if you don't want me to be laid out stark and cold afore another day's done." "But I have no spirits, Mrs Bray." "Got none? Well, I dessay a glass o' wine might do. Keep me alive p'raps till I'd crawled home to die." "But we have no wine."