"Doctor," cried the wheelwright, fiercely, "I don't be--There, sir, I beg your pardon," he continued, holding out his rough hand; "but it seems too hard to believe that any one could speak like this. The poor little thing couldn't help it, sir; and we should have had it done next Sunday. Why, sir, the poor girl was only showing me the little--don't take notice o' me, sir, please; I'm like a great girl now." As he spoke, he sank down upon an upturned box, and, covering his face with his hands, remained silent; but with his heaving shoulders telling the story of his bitter emotion. "Be a man, Morrison--be a man," said the doctor, kindly, as he laid his hand upon the stricken fellow's shoulder. "Yes, doctor," he said, rising and dashing away the signs of his grief--"this is very childish, sir; but it's a bit upset me, and now this news you bring me seems to make it worse. I'll go up and see parson. He won't refuse when he knows all." "Yes, go up and see him," said the doctor, kindly. "Can I do anything for you?" "No, sir, thanky," said the wheelwright, meekly; "you couldn't do what I wanted, sir--save that poor little thing's life. There's nothing more." "No," said the doctor; "our profession is powerless in such a case. The child was so young and tender that--" "Don't say any more, sir, please," said Morrison, with his lip quivering. And then he turned away from the house, so as to avoid Biggins the carpenter, who had just come in at the garden gate, and walked on tiptoe along the gravel walk, up to the door, where he was met by a neighbour, who led him up-stairs. Biggins, the Lawford carpenter, was the newly-appointed sexton of the church, and between him and Tom Morrison there was supposed to exist a bitter hatred, because Biggins the carpenter had once undertaken to make a wheelbarrow for the rectory garden, and Morrison had made a coffin for one of the Searby children who died of a fit of measles. The feud seemed to be a bitter one, for when he came out of the cottage five minutes later, he turned down the garden, seeing which, the doctor shook hands with Morrison, and at parting said-- "Let me give you something to do you good, Tom." "What, sir, doctor's stuff?" said the wheelwright, with a look of wonder. "I want no physic." "Yes, you do," said the doctor, smiling, as he laid the silver knob of his stick on the stout fellow's breast--"yes, you do. I can minister to a mind diseased as well as to a body. Look here, my lad, you must bear your suffering like a man; so, now go and do this--" Tom made an impatient movement to go, but the doctor stayed him. "There is nothing like work at such a time as this," he said. "Go and see the parson, and then set to and work harder than ever you worked before in your life. It will give you ease." "You're right, Mr Vinnicombe, you're right," said Tom, bluntly. "Thanky, sir--thanky. Good-bye."