‘Oh! don’t.  Oh!  Katty, Katty—­don’t, oh don’t’

‘An’ why wouldn’t I, my darlin’ misthress, tell you what’s doin’, the way you would not be dhruv out o’ your senses intirely if you had no notion, Ma’am dear, iv what they’re goin’ to do to him?’

At this moment the door opened, and Doctor Dillon’s carbuncled visage and glowing eyes appeared.

’Is there a steady woman there—­not a child, you know, Ma’am?  A—­you’ll do (to Katty).  Come in here, if you please, and we’ll tell you what you’re to do.’

So, being nothing loath, she made her courtesy and glided in.

‘Oh! doctor,’ gasped poor Mrs. Sturk, holding by the hem of his garment, ‘do you think it will kill him?’

‘No, Ma’am—­not to-night, at any rate,’ he answered, drawing back; but still she held him.

‘Oh! doctor, you think it will kill him?’

‘No, Ma’am—­there’s always some danger.’

‘Danger of what, Sir?’

’Fungus, Ma’am—­if he gets over the chance of inflammation.  But, on the other hand, Ma’am, we may do him a power of good; and see, Ma’am, ’twill be best for you to go down or into the nursery, and we’ll call you, Ma’am, if need be—­that is, if he’s better, Ma’am, as we hope.’

‘Oh!  Mr. Moore, it’s you,’ sobbed the poor woman, holding fast by the sleeve of the barber, who that moment, with many reverences and ’your servant, Ma’am,’ had mounted to the lobby with the look of awestruck curiosity, in his long, honest face, which the solemn circumstance of his visit warranted.

‘You’re the man we sent for?’ demanded Dillon, gruffly.

‘’Tis good Mr. Moore,’ cried trembling little Mrs. Sturk, deprecating and wheedling him instinctively to make him of her side, and lead him to take part with her and resist all violence to her husband—­flesh of her flesh, and bone of her bone.

’Why don’t you spake, Sor-r-r?  Are you the barber we sent for or no?  What ails you, man?’ demanded the savage Doctor Dillon, in a suppressed roar.

‘At your sarvice, Ma’am—­Sir,’ replied Moore, with submissive alacrity.

‘Come in here, then.  Come in, will you?’ cried the doctor, hauling him in with his great red hand.

‘There now—­there now—­there—­there,’ he said gruffly, extending his palm to keep off poor Mrs. Sturk.

So he shut the door, and poor Mrs. Sturk heard him draw the bolt, and felt that her Barney had passed out of her hands, and that she could do nothing for him now but clasp her hands and gasp up her prayers for his deliverance; and so great indeed was her anguish and panic, that she had not room for the feminine reflection how great a brute Doctor Dillon was.

So she heard them walking this way and that, but could not distinguish what they said, only she heard them talking; and once or twice a word reached her, but not very intelligible, such as—­

‘’Twas Surgeon Beauchamp’s—­see that’