"Bless my eyes! so it is; and a red one, too! Bad symptoms; red wigs are the cheapest; no extra fees to be got out of _that_ customer, for blacking boots and bringing hot beafsteaks. Besides, just look at his baggage; you can always judge of a traveler, Bill, by his trunks; it never fails. Now, _I_ like to see a trunk thickly studded with brass nails, and covered with a linen overall; then I know, if it is a lady's, that there's diamond rings inside, and plenty of cash; if 'tis a gentleman's, that he knows how to order sherry-cobblers in the forenoon, and a bottle of old wine or two with his dinner; and how to fee the poor fellow who brings it, too, who lives on a small salary, with large expectations." "How's Harry?" thundered the doctor again, (after waiting what he considered a reasonable time for an answer,) "or if _you_ are too lazy to tell, you whiskered jackanapes, go call your employer." The word "employer" recalled the rambling waiter to his senses, and great was his consternation on finding that "the old chap with the red wig" was the father of young Mr. Hall, who was beloved by everything in the establishment, down to old Neptune the house-dog. "I told you so," said the doctor, turning to his wife; "Harry's no better--consultation this morning--very little hope of him;--so much for _my_ not being here to prescribe for him. Ruth shouldered a great responsibility when she brought him away out of reach of _my_ practice. You go into that room, there, Mis. Hall, No. 20, with your traps and things, and take off your bonnet and keep quiet, while I go up and see him." CHAPTER XXVIII. "Humph!" said the doctor, "humph!" as Ruth drew aside the curtain, and the light fell full upon Harry's face. "Humph! it is all up with _him_; he's in the last stage of the complaint; won't live two days;" and stepping to the table, the doctor uncorked the different phials, applied them to the end of his nose, examined the labels, and then returned to the bed-side, where Ruth stood bending over Harry, so pallid, so tearless, that one involuntarily prayed that death, when he aimed his dart, might strike down both together. "Humph!" said the doctor again! "when did he have his reason last?" "A few moments, day before yesterday," said Ruth, without removing her eyes from Harry. "Well; he has been _murdered_,--yes murdered, just as much as if you had seen the knife put to his throat. That tells the whole story, and I don't care who knows it. I have been looking at those phials,--wrong course of treatment altogether for typhoid fever; fatal mistake. His death will lie heavy at _somebody's_ door," and he glanced at Ruth. "Hush! he is coming to himself," said Ruth, whose eyes had never once moved from her husband. "Then I must tell him that his hours are numbered," said the doctor, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and pompously walking round the bed.