He was devoutly thankful that his “system” required practically no examining; he had simply to record and classify the symptoms as told him, and then retire somewhere to consult his hand-book of Tonico-Therapy, which would tell him what the disease was and what the remedy. He hoped--he even went so far as to pray--that the patients would all be men. On the day after the advertisement appeared, his first patient came. From the window he saw her mounting the steps, and he had a sort of paroxysm of fright. He wanted to hide. But Minnie had let her in, and there she was knocking at the door. She was a stout woman of forty or so, terribly in earnest. She sat down heavily, with a sigh, and began to describe, with great wealth of detail, the “torments” she endured with a “sick stomach.” Her symptoms were extraordinarily complicated and diverse; she enumerated all the articles she “dassen’t touch,” and gave another list of dubious ones, which sometimes were harmless and again would be “rank poison.” “Like lead, those last sweet potatoes lay,” she told him mournfully, “right _here_. Not a wink of sleep did I get that night. Just groaning and moaning.” Lionel listened in the proper attitude of dignified concern; he really felt sorry for the poor thing. And so afraid he couldn’t help her. Still, he said reassuringly: “Wait here a moment please, while I go into the laboratory. I’ll prepare something that will relieve you.” (This is what he had planned to say, in order to give himself a chance to consult his “handbook.”) Minnie was in the dining-room when he entered. “Oh, Lionel,” she whispered, excitedly, “does she----” “Keep quiet!” he said, very rudely, and began copying the proper prescription on his little pad. “I find I’ve run out of one of my drugs,” he told his patient, “but here is a prescription. If you’ll have this made up and take a teaspoonful three times a day, it will....” “When shall I come again?” “Oh, er--next week!” She got up with another sigh, and straightened her hat. “What’s your fee, doctor?” she asked. He turned scarlet; the idea of taking money from this poor vulgar, suffering soul disgusted him, shamed him. And suppose he weren’t helping her at all? “Two dollars,” he muttered. She laid a limp bill on the table, and went out. III