"That reminds me of a little story," said the doctor. "Some years ago two men were digging a deep ditch on Johnson Street to repair a sewer. Some time after both the men were taken sick, which turned out to be typhoid fever, and, being single men, they were taken to the hospital. I saw them every day in my regular round of visits, and they progressed towards recovery until they got to the stage that you have, and complained of my bill of fare. They asked for 'something solid,' and I put them off with the same answer you got. A day or two after in making my regular rounds I noticed that one of my patients was not in evidence and I asked his friend where he was. Then the story was told me of his friend having had some visitors, one of whom brought a cooked chicken, part of which was eaten on the sly and the balance hidden under the mattress. The result was that he was then out in the morgue, having died that day, and in due time, to conclude my little story, his friend, who had no chicken, left the hospital cured." "Now," said Dr. Davie, "I'll go; you are in good hands (my wife's); be patient and ponder on my little story." It is pretty well known that Dr. Davie had had only one lung for years past, but that did not prevent him attending to his numerous patients. The many who to-day are indebted to his skill and kindness of heart will feel a great sorrow at his passing. Many of his former patients have told me of his refusal of pay for valuable services rendered them. At the conclusion of a sickness a patient would likely say: "Well, doctor, I am grateful for your pulling me through. I shall have to pay by instalments. Here is something on account." If the doctor did not know his circumstances he would say: "How much is your salary?" On his replying he (the doctor) would say: "If that is all you get you cannot afford to pay anything," and that was the last the patient would hear of it.