“I don’t know what to do with Fred, doctor; I am not in the least sure he will do my message. Indeed, to speak honestly, I am sure he will not. This is a trifling matter; but when the same thing happens twenty times a day--when his rule is to forget everything he is desired to remember--it makes us anxious about the boy’s future.” Dr. Maclehose drummed meditatively on the table, and put his lips into form for a whistle. This remark of Mrs. Bruce’s was “nuts” to him. He had assisted, professionally, at the appearance of the nine young Bruces, and the family had no more esteemed friend and general confidant. For his part, he liked the Bruces. Who could help it? The parents intelligent and genial, the young folk well looking, well grown, and open-hearted, they were just the family to make friends. All the same, the doctor found in the Bruces occasion to mount his pet hobby:--“My Utopia is the land where the family doctor has leave to play schoolmaster to the parents. To think of a fine brood like the young Bruces running to waste in half-a-dozen different ways through the invincible ignorance of father and mother! Nice people, too!” For seventeen years Dr. Maclehose had been deep in the family counsels, yet never till now had he seen the way to put in his oar anent any question of bringing up the children. Wherefore he drummed on the table, and pondered:--“Fair and softly, my good fellow; fair and softly! Make a mess of it now, and it’s my last chance; hit the nail on the head, and, who knows?” “Does the same sort of thing go on about his school work?” “Precisely; he is always in arrears. He has forgotten to take a book, or to write an exercise, or learn a lesson; in fact, his school life is a record of forgets and penalties.” “Worse than that Dean of Canterbury, whose wife _would_ make him keep account of his expenditure; and thus stood the entries for one week:--‘Gloves, 5s.; Forgets, £4, 15s.’ His writing was none too legible, so his wife, looking over his shoulder, cried, ‘Faggots! Faggots! What in the world! Have you been buying wood?’ ‘No, my dear; those are _forgets_;’--his wife gave it up.” “A capital story; but what is amusing in a Dean won’t help a boy to get through the world, and we are both uneasy about Fred.” “He is one of the ‘Boys’ Eleven,’ isn’t he?” “Oh, yes, and is wild about it: and there, I grant you, he never forgets. It’s, ‘Mother, get cook to give us an early dinner: we must be on the field by two!’ ‘Don’t forget to have my flannels clean for Friday, will you mumsy?’ he knows when to coax. ‘Subscription is due on Thursday, mother!’ and this, every day till he gets the money.” “I congratulate you, my dear friend, there’s nothing seriously amiss with the boy’s brain.” “Good heavens, doctor! Whoever thought there was? You take my breath away!”