“No, man, it can’t,” cried the old gentleman with a perplexed¹ expression, “because the dirty things are already sold and the money is invested in Botallack shares, to sell which and pay back the cash in the present depressed² state of things would be utter madness. But hush³! here comes my better half, and although she is a dear good soul, with an unusual amount of wisdom for her size, it would be injudicious to prolong the lectures of the night into the early hours of morning.”

As he spoke⁴ little Mrs Donnithorne’s round good-looking face appeared like the rising sun in the doorway⁵, and her cheery voice welcomed Oliver to breakfast.

“Thank you, aunt,” said Oliver, “but I have already breakfasted more than an hour ago, and am on my way to visit my patients. Indeed, I have to blame myself for calling at so early an hour, and would not have done so but for the irresistible⁶ attraction of a newly discovered voice, which—”

“Come, come, youngster,” interrupted Mr Donnithorne, “be pleased to bear in remembrance that the voice is connected with a pair of capital ears, remarkable⁷ for their sharpness, if not their length, and at no great distance off, I warrant.”

“You do Rose injustice,” observed Mrs Donnithorne, as the voice at that moment broke out into a lively carol in the region of the kitchen, whither its owner had gone to superintend culinary matters. “But tell me, Oliver, have you heard of the accident to poor Batten?”

“Yes, I saw him yesterday,” replied the doctor, “just after the accident happened, and I am anxious about him. I fear, though I am not quite certain, that his eyesight is destroyed.”

“Dear! dear!—oh, poor man,” said Mrs Donnithorne, whose sympathetic heart

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