And so he called to me, and I stepped forward and found myself in front of a reality. You know the thing, of course: a poor, white woman in a poor, white bed. And—— But need I describe it? You know it all, don’t you? You do not know it. I know it—now. I know what is the way of the East. I will tell you what I saw. I saw a bare brown mattress, and on it lay a moaning woman, fully dressed: _entirely_ dressed. And at her head there lay the new-born babe, and at the baby’s head another child—a child of six. And when I entered in this child made speech. "Auntie’s gointer dress him soon," he said. "This, my pure young friend," said Doctor Brink, "is a typical _mise en scène_. Every detail is correct." "Correct?" squawked the triumphant auntie. "It’s a double-adjectived marvel ... You’re a genelman, Doctor!" I ran away from this sick-room. I ran out into the rain.... I observed, as I ran past him, that the boy Frederick had boiled his egg and was eating it. *IX* *THE ’POTHECARY* The curious establishment of Dr. Brink contained one curiosity which I have not yet described to you. His name was Gilkes—Samuel de Quincey Gilkes—and he was poor and unwashed, and angular and polite, and full of wonder. He was Dr. Brink’s dispenser, or, as the natives preferred to have it, the ’Pothecary. Gilkes was a tall man, especially for a ’Pothecary, the races of ’Pothecaries being commonly little and round and complacent. But Gilkes was a giant of his species; albeit, he was timid and obliging, and carried his stature with an air of not wishing to create comment. He had long brown hair and a vague mouth, and very lean hands, with which he stroked the furniture when he spoke to you. His eyes were blue, but of an exceptional paleness, and they were restless, seeking eyes, which looked beyond you, as if they saw the sea with ships upon it. I think that Mr. Gilkes deserves a little paper to himself. I should have told you that he was not a very young man, having reached, perhaps, his fortieth year. But his heart was filled with a serene and youthful hope; for he cherished the belief that he would one day pass his final examination in surgery and medicine, and would take his degree and figure upon the rolls as a fully licenced practitioner. In the meantime he was humble. I have often listened to his sorrowful reproaches when Dr. Brink, weary of the delays occasioned by his apothecary’s interest in distant ships, would hurl himself into the little dispensary and concoct the bottles of light brown with his own hand.