"Not quite. You're horribly snappish. Sure sign of being a little out of order. I shall prescribe for you." "Do," said Salis grimly, "and I'll take the medicine and poison some one else with it." "No need; plenty of people are doing that. Now, look here, you worry yourself too much about everyday matters." "Nonsense!" "It is quite true, Mr North," said Mary, smiling. "There, sir, you hear. Then you don't take enough exercise." "Indeed, but I do. I spend half my time going about." "Visiting the poor," cried the doctor. "Harassing yourself with other folks' troubles, and listening to endless stories of worry." "Yes, Mr North, quite true." "What nonsense, Mary!" cried the curate piteously. "I must do my duty." "Of course, my dear sir, so do it; but don't overdo it. Recipe--" "I won't take it," said the curate. "Miss Salis here shall make you, sir. Recipe: `One good cigar or two pipes of bird's-eye per diem, and three hours to be spent in gardening or fishing every day.'" Mary's eyes brightened in forgetfulness of her own trouble as she rejoiced in the advice given to her brother. "It's all rubbish, North. I've no time to give to fishing or gardening. As to the cigar, I might manage that." "Pills no use without the draught," said the doctor. "But you a doctor, and prescribe tobacco--a poison!" "Does people good to poison them a little when they're out of order." "But May grumbles as it is, and is never satisfied. What will he say if he hears of my smoking, and pottering about with a fishing-rod?" "Tell May to mind his points at whist and leave us alone. There, I must be off. Take my advice, too, about the mare. I shall always hate her for the injury she did to poor Miss Salis here. Good-bye, both of you." "Stop a minute," said the curate. "What about yourself?" "Well, what about myself?" "The great idea--the crotchet--the cr--" "Well, say it--the craze, man! Every inventor is considered a lunatic till his invention works. Wait, my dear fellow--wait. I may astonish you yet. Good-bye, Miss Salis." He shook hands, and left the Rectory-parlour with Salis, the saddle creaking loudly as he mounted and then rode away. "Good fellow, Horace," sighed the curate, "but only fit for a West End practice, among people with plenty of time and money. I fancy myself smoking on the river bank, throwing flies and pitching in ground bait. It's absurd!" "Poor Miss Salis!" said Mary to herself, as she repeated the doctor's sympathetic, pitying words; and it was forced upon her more and more plainly in what light he regarded her. She was his patient--nothing more. No; this was unjust, for he always treated her most warmly--as a friend--almost as a sister. But her old hopes and aspirations seemed to be dead for ever, without promise of revival. At that moment the curate returned.