Mary sat and waited nearly two hours, while the stately servant went on silently dusting and sweeping, answering the bell every few minutes, but never saying a word to the little visitor. At the end of that time, others came in and sat by her. Pale, wretched, distressed-looking women—some with babes afflicted with sad diseases; while men limped in, almost groaning with pain. Young gentlemen, handsomely dressed, sauntered in, and throwing off cloaks and coats, sat down to books in the adjoining room. They carried on conversation in a low tone, broken by occasional laughs that contrasted strangely with the half-suppressed complainings of the group around her. The doctor at last came hurriedly in. He was a small, spare man, with a gray head, and wrinkled, cross face, that, guarded by a pair of cold blue eyes, looked as unfeeling as the man really was. He passed from patient to patient—scolding this one, abusing that, and treating all as if they were dogs. Having run through his catalogue of poverty-stricken specimens of humanity, he turned abruptly to Mary, and asked— “What do you want?” “I wish to see Dudley Fletcher, sir,” was the frightened reply. The doctor eyed the little visitor with a cold, half-suppressed sneer for a second; and then, making no reply, looked at his watch, and left the house—having thus humanely disposed of his charity patients. As his buggy rattled away, the grim janitor told Mary that Dudley Fletcher was seldom about the office now-a-days—he might be in before dinner, but it was very doubtful. If she would leave a note, he would see that Mr. Fletcher received it. Mary was disposed to wait; but her presence had attracted the attention of the students in the adjoining room, and she noticed they whispered together and stared at her—so writing hastily a note, telling Dudley of her arrival and where she could be found, she sealed and directed it, then with a heavy heart returned to the hotel.