The discussion was turned into an unexpected quarter by the entrance of Jane Hardie, who came timidly in and said, “Oh, Mr. Osmond, I cannot let you go without telling you how anxious I am about Alfred. He is so thin, and pale, and depressed.” “Nonsense, Jane,” said Mr. Hardie; “have we not all cause to be dejected in this house?” But she persisted gently that there was more in it than that; and his headaches were worse, and she could not be easy any longer without advice. “Ah! those headaches,” said Mr. Osmond, “they always made me uneasy. To tell the truth, Miss Hardie, I have noticed a remarkable change in him, but I did not like to excite apprehensions. And so he mopes, does he? seeks solitude, and is taciturn, and dejected?” “Yes. But I do not mind that so much as his turning so pale and thin.” “Oh, it is all part of one malady.” “Then you know what is the matter?” “I think I do; and yours is a wise and timely anxiety. Your brother's is a very delicate case of hyperaesthetic character; and I should like to have the advice of a profound physician. Let me see, Dr. Wycherley will be with me to-morrow: may I bring him over as a friend?” This proposal did not at all suit Mr. Hardie. He put his own construction on Alfred's pallor and dejection, and was uneasy at the idea of his being cross-questioned by a couple of doctors: “No, no,” said he; “Taff has fancies enough already. I cannot have you gentlemen coming here to fill his head with many more.” “Oh, he has fancies, has he?” said Osmond keenly. “My dear sir, we shall not say one word to _him:_ that might irritate him: but I should like _you_ to hear a truly learned opinion.” Jane looked so imploringly that Mr. Hardie yielded a reluctant assent, on those terms. So the next day, by appointment, Mr. Osmond introduced his friend Dr. Wycherley: bland and bald with a fine bead, and a face naturally intelligent, but crossed every now and then by gleams of vacancy; a man of large reading, and of tact to make it subserve his interests. A voluminous writer on certain medical subjects, he had so saturated himself with circumlocution, that it distilled from his very tongue: he talked like an Article, a Quarterly one; and so gained two advantages: 1st, he rarely irritated a fellow-creature; for if he began a sentence hot, what with its length, and what with its windiness, he ended it cool: item, stabs by polysyllables are pricks by sponges. 2ndly, this foible earned him the admiration of fools; and that is as invaluable as they are innumerable. Yet was there in the mother-tongue he despised one gem of a word he vastly admired: like most Quarterly writers. That charming word, the pet of the polysyllabic, was “OF.” He opened the matter in a subdued and sympathising tone well calculated to win a loving father, such as Richard Hardie--was not.