The nearest and dearest may turn away in grief and horror, but the doctor blenches not.

Again we are digressing.  The doctor’s well-known tap is heard at the door of a sick-room, where for many days he has been in constant attendance.  Noiselessly he is admitted.  The young husband kneels at the side of the bed where lies his dearest earthly treasure.  The calm but deeply-afflicted mother advances to the doctor, and whispers fearfully low,

“There is a change.  She sleeps.  Is it—­oh! can it be the sleep of death?”

Quickly the physician is at the bedside, and anxiously bending over his patient.

Another moment and he grasps the husband’s hand, while the glad words “She will live,” burst from his lips.

We may not picture forth their joy.  On, on, we are riding with the doctor.  Once more we are at his own door.  Hastily he enters, and takes up the slate containing the list of calls during his absence.  At half a dozen places his presence is requested without delay.

A quick step is heard on the stairs, and his gentle wife hastens to welcome him.

“I am so glad you have come; how wet you must be!”

The parlour door is thrown open.  What a cheerful fire, and how inviting look the dressing-gown and the nicely warmed slippers!

“Take off your wet clothes, dear; dinner will soon be ready,” urges the wife.

“It is impossible, Mary.  There are several places to visit yet.  Nay, never look so sad.  Have not six years taught you what a doctor’s wife must expect?”

“I shall never feel easy when you are working so hard, Henry; but surely you will take a cup of hot coffee; I have it all ready.  It will delay you but a moment.”

The doctor consents; and while the coffee is preparing, childish voices are heard, and little feet come quickly through the hall.

“Papa has come home!” shouts a manly little fellow of four years, as he almost drags his younger sister to the spot where he has heard his father’s voice.

The father’s heart is gladdened by their innocent joy, as they cling around him; but there is no time for delay.  A kiss to each, one good jump for the baby, the cup of coffee is hastily swallowed, the wife receives her embrace with tearful eyes, and as the doctor springs quickly into his chaise, and wheels around the corner, she sighs deeply as she looks at the dressing-gown and slippers, and thinks of the favourite dish which she had prepared for dinner; and now it may be night before he comes again.  But she becomes more cheerful as she remembers that a less busy season will come, and then they will enjoy the recompense of this hard labour.

The day wears away, and at length comes the happy hour when gown and slippers may be brought into requisition.  The storm still rages without, but there is quiet happiness within.  The babies are sleeping, and father and mother are in that snug little parlour, with its bright light and cheerful fire.  The husband is not too weary to read aloud, and the wife listens, while her hands are busied with woman’s never-ending work.