Tom Whitwell laughed. “You are repeating your creed, doctor. It is very proper of you; but you don’t believe it this morning, do you now? One of your patients is ill because she has had to stand twelve hours a day selling flowers and ribbons over a draper’s counter. Another is ill because a drunken husband brutally assaulted her; another because her landlord did not keep his house in proper repair, and the stairs gave way under her. A little child is dying because he has never been properly fed; another because he has been poisoned by foul drains; and yet another because some men treated him to several drinks of gin. And we are sending to represent us in the House of Commons Mr. Richard Lavender.” Dr. Stapleton passed his hand across his brow wearily. “Did you say you had a case on which you wished to consult me?” he asked. “Where is this woman who will not see a doctor?” “In Sloane-street, No. 40. But it is of no use for you to go to her, for she will not see you. Cannot you prescribe for her without?” “Certainly not. Can you describe her symptoms?” “No; only she is in great pain, and seems feverish, and has no appetite, and cannot sleep.” “Not uncommon symptoms these. Most patients have them. Is she poor?” “Very, and in dreadful trouble about Mary Wythburn, who was always good to her.” “I have a little money to give away. I will call with it, and perhaps I shall find some way of helping her. Excuse me if I advise you to return. The town will be neither pleasant nor safe later. What is this woman’s name?” “Robinson. She says a doctor’s mistake made her a widow, and that she never knew one yet who properly understood his business. Good-bye, Dr. Stapleton.” Tom’s smile was full of pleasant mischief, but it soon vanished. “Poor fellow, I am really afraid he did care for Mary,” she said. “Certainly something is the matter with him.” The next moment she met her cousin. “Tom,” she said, “Scourby will be no place for you to-day.” “That is what Dr. Stapleton has been telling me, and I am obediently making my way home already.” “Have you asked Stapleton to prescribe for you?” “No; why should I? I am perfectly well. He ought to prescribe for himself, he is looking miserably ill. Are you going to the meeting? I wish you would call for him and take him with you.” A few hours later Dallington and the doctor were making their way to the hall. The people were thronging the streets and shouting “Lavender and Liberty for ever!” Every election cry has the word liberty in it. “Where do all these people come from?” asked Dallington. “I did not think there were so many of this sort in the town.” “They do not often show themselves, but these are the people we have to reckon with. They have been left too much to themselves, and only tolerated for the use we can make of them. They will turn upon us some day and pay off old scores.” “I should not wonder if they do. Take care! Here is an ugly rush! Can we get out of it?”