"I shall mind it no more than you, Frank," I said. "I am still a young man." We climbed three staircases, and stood on the upper landing. "I'll go in and tell mother I have brought a doctor," said Frank. "Just wait here a minute." He opened a door and entered. He came out again almost immediately. He was followed by a woman of perhaps forty, with a pleasant face, but looking very sad. "Welcome, doctor," she said. "Frank tells me you were kind enough to offer us your services." "Yes, I am glad to do what I can for you." "This is my daughter. I feel very much worried about her." The daughter lay on a bed in an inner room (there were but two). She was pale and looked ill-nourished, but in spite of the delicacy of her appearance, she was pretty. "Alice, this is the doctor," said her mother. Alice opened her eyes languidly, and tried to smile. "Let me feel your pulse," I said. The pulsations were slow and feeble. The mother fixed her eyes upon me anxiously, and awaited my verdict. "Your daughter is quite run down," I said. "She has very little strength, but I do not find any positive indications of disease." "You are right, no doubt, doctor," said the mother with a sigh. "She is a delicate girl, and I am sure she was overworked." "She is employed in a dry goods store, Frank tells me." "Yes, she is at O'Neil's. They are very considerate there, but it is hard to be standing all day." "It would be hard for any one. I am a man and strong, but I don't think I could endure it. She ought to have two weeks' rest, at least, before returning to work." "I am sure you are right, doctor," said Mrs. Mills, "but how can it be managed? We have but two breadwinners, Frank and Alice. Frank, poor boy, brings in all he can, but Alice earns six dollars a week. It is upon that that we depend for our living. It is a hard thing to be poor, doctor." "Indeed it is," I answered. "You speak as if you know something about it." "I do. I am a young physician, with very little money, and few patients. Life with me is a struggle, as it is with you." I was well dressed--that is a necessity with a professional man, who must keep up appearances--and this perhaps made it difficult for Mrs. Mills to believe that I was really poor. "What do you prescribe, doctor?" "No medicines are needed. What your daughter needs most is strengthening food--to begin with a little beef tea." Mrs. Mills looked embarrassed. I understood her embarrassment. What I ordered was simple enough; but where was the money to come from, to supply the sick girl's needs? "I can make some beef tea," she said, after a pause, "and some bread." "It is just the thing," I said, cheerfully. "Then you don't think she needs any medicine?" "No." There was still that anxious look on the mother's face. Alice was the breadwinner, and she was sick. How were they to live? An idea came to me. "I will call again to-morrow morning," I said, cheerfully.