“I'm thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism must be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I 'm ashamed to say I never asked you how the pains were?”
“I might be better, and I might be worse, ma'am,” was the qualified reply; and again came a pause.
“Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will try a touch of what he calls the white oils.”
“I 'm very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb before just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.”
“You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.”
“We 're all beasts of burden, ma'am,—all of us,—even the best, if there be any best! heavy laden wi' our sins, and bent down wi' our transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I 'll have none of his white oils.”
“Well, you know the proverb, doctor, 'He that winna use the means must bear the moans.'”
“'T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily; “for who's to say when the means is blessed?”
Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the old lady did not dare to make a rejoinder.
“I 'll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can be of any service to you.”