I suppose Mr. Drencher thought his yesterday’s patient would be better for a little more advice and medicine, for he must pay a second visit to Shrublands on this day, just after the row with the captain had taken place, and walked up to the upper regions, as his custom was. Very likely he found Mr. Clarence bathing his nose there, and prescribed for the injured organ. Certainly he knocked at the door of Miss Prior’s schoolroom (the fellow was always finding a pretext for entering _that_ apartment), and Master Bedford comes to me, with a wobegone, livid countenance, and a “Ha! ha! young Sawbones is up with her!” “So my poor Dick,” I say, “I heard your confession as I was myself running in to rescue Miss P. from that villain.” “My blood was hup,” groans Dick,—“up, I beg your pardon. When I saw that young rascal lay a hand on her I could not help flying at him. I would have hit him if he had been my own father. And I could not help saying what was on my mind. It would come out; I knew it would some day. I might as well wish for the moon as hope to get her. She thinks herself superior to me, and perhaps she is mistaken. But it’s no use; she don’t care for me; she don’t care for anybody. Now the words are out, in course I mustn’t stay here.” “You may get another place easily enough with your character, Bedford!” But he shook his head. “I’m not disposed to black nobody else’s boots no more. I have another place. I have saved a bit of money. My poor old mother is gone, whom you used to be so kind to, Mr. B. I’m alone now. Confound that Sawbones, will he _never_ come away? I’ll tell you about my plans some day, sir, and I know you’ll be so good as to help me.” And away goes Dick, looking the picture of woe and despair. Presently, from the upper rooms, Sawbones descends. I happened to be standing in the hall, you see, talking to Dick. Mr. Drencher scowls at me fiercely, and I suppose I return him haughty glance for glance. He hated me: I him: I liked him to hate me. “How is your patient, Mr.—a—Drencher?” I ask. “Trifling contusion of the nose—brown paper and vinegar,” says the doctor. “Great powers! did the villain strike her on the nose?” I cry, in terror. “_Her_—whom?” says he. “Oh—ah—yes—indeed; it’s nothing,” I say, smiling. The fact is I had forgotten about Baker in my natural anxiety for Elizabeth. “I don’t know what you mean by laughing, sir?” says the red-haired practitioner. “But if you mean chaff, Mr. Batchelor, let me tell you I don’t want chaff, and I won’t have chaff!” and herewith, exit Sawbones, looking black doses at me.