“I beg your pardon,” he said, observing my mother. My mother bowed. “Mrs. Beardsall?” he asked, taking off his hat. My mother bowed. “I posted a letter to you. You are a relative of his—of poor old Carlin’s?”—he nodded sideways towards the bed. “The nearest,” said my mother. “Poor fellow—he was a bit stranded. Comes of being a bachelor, Ma’am.” “I was very much surprised to hear from him,” said my mother. “Yes, I guess he’s not been much of a one for writing to his friends. He’s had a bad time lately. You have to pay some time or other. We bring them on ourselves—silly devils as we are.—I beg your pardon.” There was a moment of silence, during which the doctor sighed, and then began to whistle softly. “Well—we might be more comfortable if we had the blind up,” he said, letting daylight in among the glimmer of the tapers as he spoke. “At any rate,” he said, “you won’t have any trouble settling up—no debts or anything of that. I believe there’s a bit to leave—so it’s not so bad. Poor devil—he was very down at the last; but we have to pay at one end or the other. What on earth is the old girl after?” he asked, looking up at the raftered ceiling, which was rumbling and thundering with the old lady’s violent rummaging. “We wanted the key of his desk,” said my mother. “Oh—I can find you that—and the will. He told me where they were, and to give them you when you came. He seemed to think a lot of you. Perhaps he might ha’ done better for himself——” Here we heard the heavy tread of the old lady coming downstairs. The doctor went to the foot of the stairs. “Hello, now—be careful!” he bawled. The poor old woman did as he expected, and trod on the braces of the trousers she was trailing, and came crashing into his arms. He set her tenderly down, saying, “Not hurt, are you?—no!” and he smiled at her and shook his head. “Eh, doctor—Eh, doctor—bless ye, I’m thankful ye’ve come. Ye’ll see to ’em now, will ye?” “Yes—” he nodded in his bluff, winning way, and hurrying into the kitchen, he mixed her a glass of whisky, and brought one for himself, saying to her, “There you are—’twas a nasty shaking for you.” The poor old woman sat in a chair by the open door of the staircase, the pile of clothing tumbled about her feet. She looked round pitifully at us and at the daylight struggling among the candle light, making a ghostly gleam on the bed where the rigid figure lay unmoved; her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold her glass. The doctor gave us the keys, and we rifled the desk and the drawers, sorting out all the papers. The doctor sat sipping and talking to us all the time.