“My Sunday School scholars; I have a large class, you see,” Alice said, as if in answer to these mental queries. “Ah, here comes my youngest—” and Alice stooped to caress a little rosy cheeked boy, with bright brown eyes and patches on both coat sleeves. The doctor saw the patches, and with a gesture of impatience, turned to go, just as his ear caught another kiss, and he knew the patched boy received what he would have given much to have. “Hanged if I don’t half wish I was one of those ragged urchins,” he said, after handing his mother and sisters to their carriage, and seating himself at their side. “But does not Miss Johnson display strange taste. Surely some other one less refined might be found to look after those brats, if they must be looked after, which I greatly doubt. Better leave them as you find them; can’t elevate them if you try. It’s trouble thrown away,” and John Richards wrapped his Parisian cloak closer around him, and leaning back in his corner, wondered if Alice Johnson really was happy in her teaching, or did she do it for effect. “It is like what Lily would have done,” he thought, “had she possessed the power and means. Alice and Lily must be alike,” and with a mental wish that Alice’s fate might prove a happier one than poor Lily’s had been, John relapsed into a silent mood, such as usually came over him when Lily was in his mind. That afternoon, while his mother and elder sisters were taking their usual Sunday nap, and Anna was nodding in her chair, the Doctor sat watching the blazing fire and trying to decide upon his future course.