Mr. Crowe had been a constant visitor at her father’s house, for Sir Martin had great sympathy with his physiological tastes; and though certainly not an original investigator himself, having a more profitable occupation as a fashionable physician, he found it very useful, and even necessary, to keep well ahead with all the research of the day, and to have the reputation for the highest scientific method. When he cured people, he always knew exactly the reason why; but he cured the patient first, and found the reason afterwards. At least, he always maintained that he did this, and never omitted to give the happy patient a popular little lecture on the subject, which sent him, or her, away not only disburdened of the ailment, but conscious of the delightful reflection that his case was an interesting contribution to clinical medicine and its cure the outcome of the study of practical physiology. For a great deal of this Sir Martin Lee sucked the brains of Mr. Crowe, who in his turn found his profit in the transaction, as he, being a surgeon, was often recommended by his more celebrated friend where the patient’s case was not a medical one. Dr. Graves, not being so ardent a devotee of science, and finding no such necessity for assuming a virtue he did not possess, had seldom visited the house in question. A great hospital, with its large medical school, its staff of professors, its physicians, surgeons, assistant physicians and assistant surgeons, its nursing sisters, nurses, dressers, and students, makes up a world in itself, of which the interests, occupations, and pursuits seem to those engaged in it to be almost the only ones of any consequence to them. They must feel this absorbing interest in all that belongs to it, or they would not be fit for their work, and could not continue it efficiently. The study of medicine demands, perhaps, a more complete sacrifice of the whole man than any other profession, except that of the Christian priesthood. To be a competent doctor at all, one must feel an overwhelming interest in the mysteries of health and disease. To be a distinguished doctor the interest must become a lifelong passion; and this, alas! too often closes in the mind of its possessor against the access of any other of the enthusiasms that lay hold of men. Neither the Church nor the Bar demands so much of its disciples as does Medicine. They allow far more scope for the pursuit of letters than the healing art. We expect a clergyman or a barrister to be a literary man. We are surprised if the doctor, by stealing some hours from his daily avocations, attains even moderate eminence in the path of literature. “A quarter of a million!” exclaimed Mr. Crowe, as he carved another slice of melon. “Rather more than less,” said Dr. Graves. “What will she do with it?” “Ah! that is just what all the world is wondering!” “She’ll be a fine catch for somebody!”