By Berwen Banks

Two months had slipped away, and still Charles Williams remained a

patient in the Westlake Hospital at Sydney. At length, after a

consultation of the doctors, it was proposed that he should be

consigned to the workhouse infirmary.

"We can't keep him here forever," said Dr. Emerton; "and as all the

beds will be wanted with this outbreak of diphtheria, I see nothing

else to be done."

"Well," said Dr. Belton, "I am deeply interested in his case, and if

you agree, I will take him under my own particular charge. You know I

have a few rooms set apart for such cases in my house at Brookmere. I

will take him there, and see what I can do for him."

"Very kind of you, I am sure," said Dr. Emerton. "You can afford that

sort of thing--I can't. I should have sent him to the infirmary, where

he would be under Dr. Hutchinson's care; but, of course, he will be

better off in your private hospital."

And one day in the following week, Dr. Belton took home with him the

invalid, whose case he had already described to his wife and children,

so that when the stooping figure emerged from the carriage leaning

heavily on the arm of the nurse who accompanied him, he was received

with kindness and warmth, Mrs. Belton herself meeting him with

outstretched hands of welcome.

"Very glad to see you, Mr. Williams. You will soon get better here, I

think."

Cardo looked at her with no intelligence in his eyes. "Yes, thank

you," was all he said, as he passed with his nurse into the bright,

cosy room relegated to the use of the patients, who were so fortunate,

or so unfortunate as to arouse more than usual interest in Dr. Belton's

mind.

"Now, nurse," said the doctor, "give him a good tea, and a little of

that cold quail, and after tea I will come and have a chat with him."

Later on in the evening he kept his word and found Cardo sunk in the

depths of an arm-chair, watching with lack-lustre eyes, while the Dr.'s

two boys tried their skill at a game of bagatelle.

"Well, Williams, and how are you now? tired, eh?" he asked.

"Yes," said Cardo, turning his eyes upon the doctor with a look of

bewilderment, which reminded him of the look of dumb inquiry in the

eyes of a troubled dog.

"You will like this better than the hospital I am sure. Do you love

children?"

"No," was Cardo's laconic reply, at which the doctor smiled.

He tried many subjects but failed to get any further answer than "yes"

or "no." Most men would have been discouraged when several weeks

passed over, and still his patient showed very little signs of

improvement. It is true, now he would answer more at length, but he

was never heard to volunteer a remark, though he sat for hours in what

looked like a "brown study," in which probably only indistinct forms

and fantastic shapes passed before his mind's eye. And latterly the

doctor too had frequently been observed to fall into a reverie, while

his eyes were fixed on Charles Williams's motionless attitude. After

much thought, he would sit beside his patient and try to interest him

in something going on around him.