"The perlice," responded the woman, who had talked more than was good for her, and now looked paler, if possible, than before—"the perlice was very rude an’ rough to me. They found the money in the coal cupboard, an’ they took it away. But that didn’t satisfy them. It on’y seemed to aggerivate them. An’ night after night they come round ’ere, an’ they was very rough to me. But they ain’t got ’old o’ Mr. West. "’E’s bin gone a year now, all but five weeks. An’ they ain’t caught ’im, an’ they never will. I believe it would please that daughter o’ mine—the wicked, vain, unfeelin’ thing—if they _was_ to catch ’m. "Mr. West, ’e ’aven’t wrote me, nor I don’t suppose ’e will. Mr. West is a careful sort. I _did_ send round the other day to a place where I thought there might be noos o’ ’im; but there wasn’t no noos o’ ’im. "Not that I worry meself about _’im_, if you understand. Mr. West would be all right, wherever it was. ’E’s the sort that kin take care o’ ’isself, ’e is. It’s the boy—young Bert—I’m thinkin’ of. Mr. West would be very cut up, ’e would, to think as Bert should come to any ’arm." This reference to the nice paternal feeling of Mr. West affected us both strangely. "But," continued Mrs. West, "I’m leavin’ ’im the ’ome, at all events. Bert can’t come to no pertickler ’arm so long’s ’e’s got a home. "Mr. West ’isself was always a rare one for ’ome. The boy takes arter ’im." *XVIII* *THREE DIALOGUES* The Mission of the Healer is a fine and a noble one, and I have often confided this original thought to my friend Doctor Brink, who declares that such confidences are helpful to him. And I now desire to record, without comment, three dialogues which drifted in to me at intervals one Sunday, when I was sitting on the doctor’s gas-stove. I.—MORNING VISITOR: And ’e’s ser fretful, Doctor, and ’is breathin’s ser sick, and ’e don’t appear to ’ave no appetite. DOCTOR: Bring him to the light here. I just want—ah! VISITOR: I give ’im a soothin’ powder, too, last night—a large one. I bought it at the chimmis. They’re supposed to be very good, them Parker’s soothin’ powders. DOCTOR: I’m afraid that this is rather serious. VISITOR: Down’t you think they’re very good, Doctor—them Parker’s soothin’ powders? DOCTOR: I’m afraid there’s not much doubt that this child has got diphtheria. VISITOR: I bin very careful with ’im, Doctor. I give ’im a soothin’ powder. DOCTOR: Where do you live? VISITOR: Fourteen Mulberry Street. It’s next to the oil shop. DOCTOR: How many rooms? VISITOR: Was you gointer send ’im away then, Doctor? Oh, down’t send ’im away? DOCTOR: How many rooms? VISITOR: Down’t send ’im away, Doctor! DOCTOR: I haven’t said anything about sending him away—so far. Answer my questions like a sensible woman. You want him to get better, don’t you?