It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was asleep, for Irving spoke so quietly, so like a man who knew what he was doing, that the doctor was compelled to yield, and turning about, recognized his Saratoga acquaintance. The recognition was mutual, and after a few natural remarks, Irving explained how he had given his seat to a lady whose little child was suffering from the ear-ache. “By the way, doctor,” he added, “you ought to know the remedy for such ailments. Suppose you prescribe in case it returns.” “I know but little about babies or their aches” the Dr. answered, just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed effort on the mother’s part to soothe her suffering child. Irving Stanley felt the sneer implied in the doctor’s words, and it kept him silent for a time, while scream after scream filled the car, and roused every sleeping occupant to ask what was the matter. Some, and among them the doctor, _cursed_ the child thus disturbing their slumbers; some wished it anything but complimentary wishes; some felt and evinced real sympathy, while nearly all glanced backward at the dark corner where the poor mother sat bending over her infant, unmindful of the many curious looks cast upon her. The pain must have been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his agony, writhed from Adah’s lap and sank upon the floor, his whole form quivering with anguish as he cried, “Oh, ma! ma! ma ma!” The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene and many now gathered near, offering advice and help while even Dr. Richards experienced a most unaccountable sensation as that baby cry smote on his ear. Foremost among those who offered aid was Irving Stanley. His was the voice which breathed comfort to the weeping Adah, his the hand extended to take up little Willie, his the arms which held and soothed the struggling boy, his the mind which thought of everything available that could possibly bring ease, until at last the outcries ceased and Willie lay quietly in his arms. “I’ll take him now,” and Adah put out her hands; but Willie refused to go, and clung closer to Mr. Stanley, who said, laughingly, “You see that I am preferred. He is too heavy for you to hold. Please trust him to me, awhile.” And Adah yielded to that voice, and leaning against the window, rested her tired head upon her hand, while Irving carried Willie to his seat beside the doctor. There was a slight sneer on the doctor’s face as he saw the little boy, but Irving Stanley he knew was not one whose acts could be questioned by him; so he contented himself with saying, “You must be fond of young ones.” “Fond of children,” Irving replied, laying great stress on the word _children_. “Yes, I am, very; and even if I were not, pity would prompt me to take this one from his mother, who is so tired, besides being very pretty, and that you knows goes far with us men.