house, and locked the doors, and took things in by the window, after being fumigated by a sentinel outside. The doctor laughed as he asked them whether they would not be more glad to see him, if he came down the chimney, instead of their having to unlock the door for him. He wondered they had not a vinegar bath for him to go overhead in, before entering their presence. The ladies thought this shocking levity; and they did not conceal their opinion. The doctor then spoke gravely enough of the effects of fear on the human frame. With its effects on the conscience, and on the peace of the mind, he said he had nothing to do. That was the department of the physician of souls. (His hearers were unconscious of the mournful satire conveyed in these words.) His business was with the effect of fear on the nerves and brain, exhausting through them the resources of life. He declared that Mr. Finch would probably have been well at that moment, if he had gone about as freely as other persons among the sick, more interested in getting them well than afraid of being ill himself; and, for confirmation, he pointed to the Good Lady and the Warrenders, who had now for two months run all sorts of risks, and showed no sign of fever. They were fatigued, he said; too much so; as he was himself; and something must be done to relieve Miss Pickard especially; but— “Who is she?” inquired the ladies. “Why is she so prominent here?” “As for who she is,” replied he, “I only know that she is an angel.” “Come down out of the clouds, I suppose.” “Something very like it. She dropped into our hollow one August evening—nobody knows whence nor why. As for her taking the lead here, I imagine it is because there was nobody else to do it.” “But has she saved many lives, do you think?” “Yes, of some that are too young to be aware what they owe her; and of some yet unborn. She could not do much for those who were down in the fever before she came: except, indeed, that it is much to give them a sense of relief and comfort of body (though short of saving life) and peace of mind, and cheerfulness of heart. But the great consequences of her presence are to come. When I see the change that is taking place in the cottages here, and in the clothes of the people, and their care of their skins, and their notions about their food, I feel disposed to believe that this is the last plague that will ever be known in Bleaburn.” “Plague! O horrid!” exclaimed the shuddering sister. “Call it what you will,” the doctor replied. “The name matters little when the thing makes itself so clear. Yes, by the way, it may matter much with such a patient as we have within there. Pray, whatever you do, don’t use the word ‘plague’ within his hearing. You must cheer him up; only that you sadly want cheering yourselves. I think an hour a day of the Good Lady’s smile would be the best prescription for you all.” “Do you think she would come? We should be so obliged to her if she would!”