“Perhaps not; I have been too busy to read any.”

“But you should; youth is the age of poetry.”

“Well, I thought it was the time to work; moreover, I don’t understand how youth can be age.  But pray tell me what is it you want of me, for I want to see Mrs. St. Felix before dinner-time.”

“Well, then, Tom, I am in love—­deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love.”

“I wish you well out of it,” replied I, with some bitterness.  “And pray with whom may you be so dreadfully in love—­Anny Whistle?”

“Anny Whistle!—­to the winds have I whistled her long ago.  No, that was a juvenile fancy.  Hear me.  I am in love with the charming widow.”

“What, Mrs. St. Felix?”

“Yes.  Felix means happy in Latin, and my happiness depends upon her.  I must either succeed, or—­Tom, do you see that bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s laudanum; that’s all.”

“But, Tom, you forget; you certainly would not supplant your patron, your master, I may say your benefactor—­the doctor?”

“Why not? he has tried, and failed.  He has been trying to make an impression upon her these ten years, but it’s no go.  Ain’t I a doctor, as good as he?  Ay, better, for I’m a young doctor, and he is an old one!  All the ladies are for me now.  I’m a very rising young man.”

“Well, don’t rise much higher, or your head will reach up to the shop ceiling.  Have you anything more to say to me?”

“Why, I have hardly begun.  You see, Tom, the widow looks upon me with a favorable eye, and more than once I have thought of popping the question over the counter; but I never could muster up courage, my love is so intense.  As the poet says—­

“’Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, howe’er so witty; The beggar that is dumb, you know, Deserves our double pity.’

“Now, Tom, I wish to tax your friendship.  I wish you to speak for me.”

“What, speak to Mrs. St. Felix?”

“Yes, be my embassador.  I have attempted to write some verses; but somehow or another I never could find rhymes.  The poetic feeling is in me, nevertheless.  Tell me, Tom, will you do what I ask?”

“But what makes you think that the widow is favorably inclined?”

“What? why, her behavior, to be sure.  I never pass her but she laughs or smiles.  And then the doctor is evidently jealous; accuses me of making wrong mixtures; of paying too much attention to dress; of reading too much; always finding fault.  However, the time may come—­I repeat my request; Tom, will you oblige me?  You ought to have a fellow-feeling.”

This last remark annoyed me.  I felt convinced that Mrs. St. Felix was really laughing at him, so I replied, “I shall not refuse you, but recollect that he who has been so unsuccessful himself is not likely to succeed for others.  You shall have your answer very soon.”

“Thanks, Tom, thanks.  My toast, as I said before, when called upon, is ‘Friendship and Love.’”