The afternoon sun streamed full on the surgery-window, and Dr. Knox, who had just pelted back from dinner, stood behind the counter, making up bottles of physic. Mr. Tamlyn had an apprentice, a young fellow named Dockett, but he could not be trusted with the physic department yet, as he was apt to serve out calomel powder for camomile flowers. Of the three poor parish patients, waiting for their medicine, two sat and one stood, as there was not a third chair. The doctor spoke very kindly to them about their ailments; he always did that; but he did not seem well himself, and often put his hand to his throat and chest. The physic and the parish patients done with, he went into the other room, and threw himself into the easy-chair. "I wonder what's the matter with me?" he said to himself: and then he got up again, for Mr. Tamlyn was coming in. He was a short man with a grey face, and iron grey hair. "Arnold," said he, "I wish you'd take my round this afternoon. There are only three or four people who need be seen, and the carriage is at the door." "Is Bertie worse than usual?" asked Arnold; who knew that every impediment in Mr. Tamlyn's way was caused by Bertie. "He is in a great deal of pain. I really don't care to leave him." "Oh, I'll go with pleasure," replied Arnold, passing into the surgery to get his hat. Mr. Tamlyn walked with him across the flagged court to the gate, talking of the sick people he was going to see. Arnold got into the brougham and was driven away. When he returned, Mr. Tamlyn was upstairs in Bertie's sitting-room. Arnold went there. "Anything more come in?" he asked. "Or can the brougham be put up?" "Dear me, yes; here's a note from Mrs. Stephenson," said Mr. Tamlyn, replying to the first question. And he spoke testily: for Mrs. Stephenson was a lady of seventy, who always insisted on his own attendance, objecting to Dr. Knox on the score of his youth. "Well, you must go for once, Arnold. If she grumbles, tell her I was out." On a sofa in the room lay Albert Tamlyn; a lad of sixteen with a fretful countenance and rumpled hair. Miss Tamlyn, a pleasant-looking lady of thirty-five, sat by the sofa at work. Arnold Knox went up to the boy, speaking with the utmost gentleness. "Bertie, my boy, I am sorry you are in pain to-day." "Who said I was in pain?" retorted Bertie, ungraciously, his voice as squeaky as a penny trumpet. "Why, Bertie, you know you are in great pain: it was I who told Dr. Knox so," interposed the father. "Then you had no business to tell him so," shrieked Bertie, with a hideous grin of resentment. "What is it to him?--or to you?--or to anybody?" "Oh, Bertie, Bertie!" whispered Miss Tamlyn. "Oh, my boy, you should not give way like this." "You just give your tongue a holiday, Aunt Bessy," fired Bertie. "I can't be bothered by you all in this way."