“That he has, and seen a greater than Sir Harry; he has come back with a fine place, doctor; he's to be one of the Queen's--I forget whether they call them couriers or messengers--that bring the state despatches all over the world; and, as poor dear Tony says, it's a place that was made for him,--for they don't want Greek or Latin, or any more book-learning than a country gentleman should have. “What are you sighing about, Dr. Stewart? There's nothing to sigh over getting five, maybe six, hundred a year.” “I was not sighing; I was only thinkin'. And when is he to begin this new life?” “If you are sighing over the fall it is for a Butler, one of his kith and kin, taking a very humble place, you may just spare your feelings, doctor, for there are others as good as himself in the same employ.” “And what does Sir Arthur say to it, ma'am?” asked he, as it were to divert her thoughts into another course. “Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart,” said she, drawing herself up and smoothing down her dress with dignity, “we have ventured to take this step without consulting Sir Arthur or any of his family.” A somewhat long silence ensued. At last she said: “If Tony was at home, doctor, he 'd tell you how kindly his father's old friend received him,--taking up stories of long ago, and calling him Watty, just as he used to do. And so, if they did not give my poor boy a better place, it was because there was nothing just ready at the moment, perhaps,--or nothing to fit him; for, as Sir Harry said laughingly, 'We can't make you a bishop, I fear.'” “I dinna see anything against it,” muttered the old minister, not sorry for the chance of a shot against Episcopacy. “I'm thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism must be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I 'm ashamed to say I never asked you how the pains were?” “I might be better, and I might be worse, ma'am,” was the qualified reply; and again came a pause. “Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will try a touch of what he calls the white oils.” “I 'm very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb before just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.” “You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.” “We 're all beasts of burden, ma'am,--all of us,--even the best, if there be any best! heavy laden wi' our sins, and bent down wi' our transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I 'll have none of his white oils.” “Well, you know the proverb, doctor, 'He that winna use the means must bear the moans.'” “'T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily; “for who's to say when the means is blessed?” Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the old lady did not dare to make a rejoinder. “I 'll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can be of any service to you.”