Mr. Schöfer proceeded to the door, and at once presented the obsequious figure of Billy Traynor, who, having heard some details of the rank and quality of his new patient, made his approaches with a most deferential humility. It was true, Billy knew that my Lord Glencore's rank was above that of Sir Horace, but to his eyes there was the far higher distinction of a man of undoubted ability,--a great speaker, a great writer, a great diplomatist; and Billy Traynor, for the first time in his life, found himself in the presence of one whose claims to distinction stood upon the lofty basis of personal superiority. Now, though bashful-ness was not the chief characteristic of his nature, he really felt abashed and timid as he drew near the bed, and shrank under the quick but searching glance of the sick man's cold gray eyes. “Place a chair, and leave us, Fritz,” said Sir Horace; and then, turning slowly round, smiled as he said, “I'm happy to make your acquaintance, sir. My friend, Lord Glencore, has told me with what skill you treated him, and I embrace the fortunate occasion to profit by your professional ability.” “I'm your humble slave, sir,” said Billy, with a deep, rich brogue; and the manner of the speaker, and his accent, seemed so to surprise Upton that he continued to stare at him fixedly for some seconds without speaking. “You studied in Scotland, I believe?” said he, with one of the most engaging smiles, while he hazarded the question. “Indeed, then, I did not, sir,” said Billy, with a heavy sigh; “all I know of the _ars medicâtrix_ I picked up,--_currendo per campos_,--as one may say, vagabondizing through life, and watching my opportunities. Nature gave me the Hippocratic turn, and I did my best to improve it.” “So that you never took out a regular diploma?” said Sir Horace, with another and still blander smile. “Sorra one, sir! I 'm a doctor just as a man is a poet,--by sheer janius! 'T is the study of nature makes both one and the other; that is, when there's the raal stuff,--the _divinus afflatus_,--inside. Without you have that, you 're only a rhymester or a quack.” “You would, then, trace a parallel between them?” said Upton, graciously. “To be sure, sir! Ould Heyric says that the poet and the physician is one:-- “'For he who reads the clouded skies, And knows the utterings of the deep, Can surely see in human eyes The sorrows that so heart-locked sleep.' The human system is just a kind of universe of its own; and the very same faculties that investigate the laws of nature in one case is good in the other.” “I don't think the author of 'King Arthur' supports your theory,” said Upton, gently. “Blackmoor was an ass; but maybe he was as great a bosthoon in physic as in poetry,” rejoined Billy, promptly.