“Ah, well,” said Buttons, “any way, Sarah says she knows you are clever, ’cos her little girl as lives with her mother, and calls Sarah aunt, has bin to your ’spensary with ringworm, and you cured her right off.”

“Ay, and a good many more,” said Jane, loftily.  She was a housemaid of imagination; and while Staines was putting some lint and an instrument case into his pocket, she proceeded to relate a number of miraculous cures.  Dr. Staines interrupted them by suddenly emerging, and inviting Buttons to take him to the house.

Mrs. Staines was so pleased with Jane for cracking up the doctor, that she gave her five shillings; and, after that, used to talk to her a great deal more than to the cook, which judicious conduct presently set all three by the ears.

Buttons took the doctor to a fine house in the same street, and told him his mistress’s name on the way—­Mrs. Lucas.  He was taken up to the nursery, and found Mrs. Lucas seated, crying and lamenting, and a woman holding a little girl of about seven, whose brow had been cut open by the fender, on which she had fallen from a chair; it looked very ugly, and was even now bleeding.

Dr. Staines lost no time; he examined the wound keenly, and then said kindly to Mrs. Lucas, “I am happy to tell you it is not serious.”  He then asked for a large basin and some tepid water, and bathed it so softly and soothingly that the child soon became composed; and the mother discovered the artist at once.  He compressed the wound, and explained to Mrs. Lucas that the principal thing really was to avoid an ugly scar.  “There is no danger,” said he.  He then bound the wound neatly up, and had the girl put to bed.  “You will not wake her at any particular hour, nurse.  Let her sleep.  Have a little strong beef-tea ready, and give it her at any hour, night or day, she asks for it.  But do not force it on her, or you will do her more harm than good.  She had better sleep before she eats.”

Mrs. Lucas begged him to come every morning; and, as he was going, she shook hands with him, and the soft palm deposited a hard substance wrapped in paper.  He took it with professional gravity and seeming unconsciousness; but, once outside the house, went home on wings.  He ran up to the drawing-room, and found his wife seated, and playing at reading.  He threw himself on his knees, and the fee into her lap; and, while she unfolded the paper with an ejaculation of pleasure, he said, “Darling, the first real patient—­the first real fee.  It is yours to buy the new bonnet.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said she, with her eyes glistening.  “But I’m afraid one can’t get a bonnet fit to wear—­for a guinea.”

Dr. Staines visited his little patient every day, and received his guinea.  Mrs. Lucas also called him in for her own little ailments, and they were the best possible kind of ailments:  for, being imaginary, there was no limit to them.

Then did Mrs. Staines turn jealous of her husband.  “They never ask me,” said she; “and I am moped to death.”