“By the way, doctor,” he added, “you ought to know the remedy for such ailments.  Suppose you prescribe in case it returns.  I do pity that young woman.”

Dr. Richards stared at him in astonishment.

“I know but little about babies or their aches,” he answered at last, just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed effort on the mother’s part to soothe her suffering child.

The pain must have been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his agony, writhed from Adah’s lap and sank upon the floor, his waxen hand pressed convulsively to his ear, and his whole form quivering with anguish as he cried, “Oh, ma! ma! ma! ma!”

The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene, and many now gathered near, offering advice and help, while even Dr. Richards turned toward the group gathering by the door, experiencing a most unaccountable sensation as that baby cry smote on his ear.  Foremost among those who offered aid was Irving Stanley.  His was the voice which breathed comfort to the weeping Adah, his the hand extended to take up little Willie, his the arms which held and soothed the struggling boy, his the mind which thought of everything available that could possibly bring ease.

“Who’ll give me a cigar?  I do not use them myself.  Ask him,” he said, pointing to the doctor, who mechanically took a fine Havana from the case and half-grudgingly handed it to the lady, who hurried back with it to Irving Stanley.

To break it up and place it in Willie’s ear was the work of a moment, and ere long the fierce outcries ceased as Willie grew easier and lay quietly in Irving Stanley’s arms.

“I’ll take him now,” and Adah put out her hands; but Willie refused to go, and clung closer to Mr. Stanley, who said, laughingly:  “You see that I am preferred.  He is too heavy for you to hold.  Please trust him to me, while you get the rest you need.”

And Adah yielded to that voice as if it were one which had a right to say what she must do, and leaning back against the window, rested her tired head upon her hand, while Irving carried Willie to his seat beside the doctor!  There was a slight sneer on the doctor’s face as he saw the little boy.

“You don’t like children, I reckon,” Irving said, as the doctor drew back from the little feet which unconsciously touched his lap.

“No, I hate them,” was the answer, spoken half-savagely, for at that moment a tiny hand was deliberately laid on his, as Willie showed a disposition to be friendly.  “I hate them,” and the little hand was pushed rudely off.

Wonderingly the soft, large eyes of the child looked up to his.  Something in their expression riveted the doctor’s gaze as by a spell.  There were tears in the baby’s eyes, and the pretty lip began to quiver at the harsh indignity.  The doctor’s finer feelings, if he had any, were touched, and muttering to himself, “I’m a brute,” he slouched his riding cap still lower down upon his forehead, and turning away to the window, relapsed into a gloomy reverie.