"No. I never learnt very much at school. I got the lessons into my head as long as I had to patter them off by heart like a parrot,--but the teachers were all so dull and prosy, and never took any real pains to explain things to me,--indeed, now when I come to think of it, I don't believe they _could_ explain!--they needed teaching themselves. Anyhow, as soon as I came away I forgot everything but reading and writing and sums--and began to learn all over again with Dad. Dad made me read to him every night--all sorts of books." "Had you a Free Library at Barnstaple?" "I don't know--I never asked,"--she said--"Father hated 'lent' books. He had a savings-box--he used to call it his 'book-box'--and he would always drop in every spare penny he had for books till he'd got a few shillings, and then he would buy what he called 'classics.' They're all so cheap, you see. And by degrees we got Shakespeare and Carlyle, and Emerson and Scott and Dickens, and nearly all the poets; when you go into the parlour you'll see quite a nice bookcase there, full of books. It's much better to have them like that for one's own, than wait turns at a Free Library. I've read all Shakespeare at least twenty times over." The garden-gate suddenly clicked open and she turned her head. "Here's Mr. Bunce come to see you." Helmsley drew himself up a little in his chair as the village doctor entered, and after exchanging a brief "Good-morning!" with Mary, approached him. The situation was curious;--here was he,--a multi-millionaire, who could have paid the greatest specialists in the world for their medical skill and attendance,--under the supervision and scrutiny of this simple herbalist, who, standing opposite to him, bent a pair of kindly brown eyes enquiringly upon his face. "Up to-day, are we?" said Mr. Bunce--"That is well; that's very well! Better in ourselves, too, are we? Better in ourselves?" "I am much better,"--replied Helmsley--"Very much better!--thanks to you and Miss Deane. You--you have both been very good to me." "That's well--that's very well!" And Mr. Bunce appeared to ruminate, while Helmsley studied his face and figure with greater appreciation than he had yet been able to do. He had often seen this small dark man in the pauses of his feverish delirium,--often he had tried to answer his gentle questions,--often in the dim light of early morning or late evening he had sought to discern his features, and yet could make nothing clear as to their actual form, save that their expression was kind. Now, as it seemed for the first time, he saw Mr. Bunce as he was,--small and wiry, with a thin, clean-shaven face, deeply furrowed, broad brows, and a pleasant look,--the eyes especially, deep sunk in the head though they were, had a steady tenderness in them such as one sees in the eyes of a brave St. Bernard dog who has saved many lives.