If Dr. Grounsell had been intended by nature to outrage all ultra-refined notions regarding personal appearance, he could not possibly have been more cunningly fashioned. Somewhat below the middle size, and squarely formed, his legs did not occupy more than a third of his height; his head was preternaturally large, and seemed even larger from a crop of curly yellowish hair, whose flaring ochre only rescued it from the imputation of being a wig. His hands and feet were enormous, requiring a muscular effort to move them that made all his gestures grotesque and uncouth. In addition to these native graces, his clothes were always made much too large for him, from his avowed dislike to the over-tightening and squeezing of modern fashion. As his whole life had been passed in the superintendence of a great military hospital in the East, wherein all his conversations with his brethren were maintained in technicalities, he had never converted the professional jargon into a popular currency, but used the terms of art upon all occasions, regardless of the inability of the unmedical world to understand him. “Well, sir, what is your report to-day?” said Lady Onslow, assuming her very stateliest of manners. “Better, and worse, madam. The arthritis relieved, the cardiac symptoms more imminent.' “Please to bear in mind, sir, that I have not studied at Apothecaries' Hall.” “Nor I, madam; but at Edinburgh and Aberdeen, in the faculties of medicine and surgery,” said Grounsell, drawing down his waistcoat, and arranging himself in what he considered an order of battle. “Is papa better, doctor?” said Sydney, mildly. “The articular affection is certainly alleviated, but there is mischief here,” said Grounsell, placing his hand over his heart; “fibrous tissues, my dear Miss Onslow, fibrous tissues are ticklish affairs.” “Is this advice to be construed in a moral rather than a medical sense?” said Lady Onslow, with a malicious smile. “Either or both,” replied the doctor. “The heart will always be highly susceptible of nervous influence.” “But papa” broke in Sydney, eagerly. “Is suffering under metastasis migratory gout, it may be termed changing from articular to large organic structures.” “And, of course, you are giving him the old poisons that were in use fifty years ago?” “What do you mean, madam?” said Grounsell, sternly. “That shocking thing that drives people mad colocynth, or colchicum, or something like that. You know what I mean?” “Happily for me, madam, I can guess it.” “And are you still as obstinate as ever about the globules?” “The homoeopathic humbug?” “If you are polite enough so to designate what I put the most implicit trust in. But I warn you, sir, I mean to exert my just and rightful influence with Sir Stafford; and in case a very great change does not appear to-morrow, I shall insist upon his trying the aconite.”