“No, sir, he never came near us, and mother never went to see him.”

“What was the reason?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

The child continued to look intently in my face, but I questioned him no further.  I knew Mr. W——­very well, and settled it at once in my mind that I would call and see him about the lad.  I stood musing for some moments after the boy’s last reply, and then said—­

“Tell Mr. Maxwell, that I will call down in about half an hour:  Run home as quickly as you can, and try and keep out of the rain.”

The sad, rebuking earnestness with which the boy looked at me, when I said this, touched my feelings.  He had, evidently, expected more than a mere expression of sympathy; but I did not think it right to create any false hopes in his mind.  I meant to do all I could to relieve his wretched condition; but did not know how far I would be successful.

I found, on visiting the child of Maxwell, that I had quite a severe case of croup on my hands.  His respiration was very difficult, and sounded as if the air were forced through a metallic tube.  There was a good deal of fever, and other unfavourable symptoms.  The albuminous secretion was large, and the formation of the false membrane so rapid as to threaten suffocation.  I resorted to the usual treatment in such cases, and, happily, succeeded in producing a healthy change in the course of a few hours.  So urgent had been the case, that, in attending to it, my mind had lost sight of the little boy on my first and second visits.  As I was leaving the house on the morning succeeding the day on which I had been called in, I met him coming along the passage with an armful of wood.  The look he gave me, as he passed, rebuked my forgetfulness, and forced me to turn back and speak to his master.

“Look here, Maxwell,” I said, speaking decidedly, but in a voice so low that my words could not be heard distinctly by others in the room—­“you must take better care of that boy Bill, or you will get into trouble.”

“How so, doctor?  I am not aware that I ill-treat him,” returned the shoemaker, looking up with surprise.

“He is not clothed warmly enough for such weather as this.”

“You must be mistaken.  He has never complained of not feeling warm.”

I took hold of Maxwell’s pantaloons.  They were made of coarse, thick cloth, and I perceived that there were thick woollen drawers under them.

“Take off these heavy trowsers and drawers,” said I, and in place of them put on a pair of half-worn corduroy pantaloons, “and go out of doors and stand in the rain until you are drenched to the skin.  The experiment will enable you to decide for yourself whether Bill is warmly enough clad.”

I spoke with earnestness.  Either my manner, or what I said, produced a strong effect upon the shoemaker.  I could see that I had offended him, and that he was struggling to keep down a feeling of anger that was ready to pour itself forth upon me for having presumed to remark upon and interfere with his business.