"Hang it all; she might have put it off," he said to himself as he buttoned his coat; "but I'm not going to lose my day's hunting for fifty heirs of Lorton;" and at 5.30 A.M., the ceremony being over, before turning in he gave orders that he was to be called at half-past seven, and at half-past ten he arrives, as we see him, hale and hearty, at Willowfield Lodge. Very well mounted is the Doctor, for he knows a horse when he sees one; and though he only keeps two--or rather, as he himself puts it, "one and a half" (the second one having to take him occasionally on professional trips)--they are both something above the average, and when hounds are running, Ladybird or Precipitate, the two horses, are pretty nearly certain to be seen in the van. It does not require a second glance at the keen eyes, the determined mouth, wreathed in a cheery smile, and the strong nervous hands, to show that before one is a man of iron will. Prompt of decision, quick at diagnosing disease, with a heart full of sympathy for suffering, yet never faltering when forced to resort to the knife, Edward Wilson has made a name for himself second to none in that part of England. Indeed, over and over again his old friend and patron, Sir George Fennel, the great London physician, has urged him to migrate to town; but his answer is always the same: "Couldn't live through one season. I must be in the fresh air; and if I did not see hounds now and then, I should pine away. Besides, I should miss all my old friends in Bullshire so; and as for fame, old Widow Fletcher and John Billings the blacksmith would not believe you if you told them there was a cleverer man than myself living! Poor souls! it shows their ignorance; but what more can I want?" The Doctor is quite right. Among the poor he and the Parson run a neck-and-neck race for popularity. Perhaps from the fact of being associated with that, to them, great mystery--medicine--the Doctor is held in greater awe; but they all remember how, hand-in-hand, the two fought death in the fever-time; and the great authorities I have mentioned--the widow and the blacksmith--assert that "Doctor ay does know summat about rheumatiz; ay's got some stuff as sends it away all in a jiff like." It is fifteen years ago since Edward Wilson, then five-and-twenty, came down to Bullshire as assistant to old Dr. Johnstone. He rather astonished the methodical old practitioner with his theories, for the young Doctor, whose whole soul was in his profession, had read deeply and judiciously, and was far in advance of the old-fashioned routine of blood-letting, cupping, and Epsom salts.