"You are a good girl, Maggie, and I don't see how André could have done any less for you," replied the doctor. "Who keeps house here?"
"O, I do that, sir."
"Then you must have to work very hard."
"Indeed, I don't! I have to keep busy almost all day; but it is such a pleasure to me to know that I am doing something for mon père, that I never think it is hard at all."
Everything looked so neat and nice in the house that the doctor could not decide whether any assistance was required or not. He was one of those good physicians who felt for the poor and the humble. Though he practised in some of the richest and most aristocratic families in the city, his mission was not to them alone. He visited the haunts of poverty, and not only contributed his professional services in their aid, but he gave with no stinted hand from his own purse to relieve their wants. When he died, the sermon preached on the Sunday after his funeral was from the text, "The beloved physician;" and no one ever went to his reward in heaven who better deserved the praise bestowed upon him.
In the present instance, he felt that his work was not alone to heal the sick. His patient was a journeyman barber, with only a boy, and a girl of fifteen, to depend upon. This same doctor often went among his friends in State Street, in 'change hours, to preach the gospel of charity in his own unostentatious way. All gave when he asked, and it was not a very difficult matter for him to raise fifty or a hundred dollars for a deserving family. He purposed to do this for those under the barber's humble roof, who, without being connected by the remotest tie of blood, were more loving and devoted towards each other than many whom God had joined by the ties of kindred.
The doctor never told anybody of his good deeds. Hardly did his left hand know what his right hand did; and one of his eyes, which followed not the other's apparent line of vision, seemed to be looking out all the time for some hidden source of human suffering. He was as tender of the feelings of others as he was of the visible wounds of his patients. He saw the blush upon the cheeks of Maggie, and he interpreted it as readily as though the sentiment had been expressed in words. He forbore to make any further inquiries in regard to the pecuniary condition of the strange family; but he was determined that all their wants should be supplied, without injury to their laudable pride. He went away, and Maggie and Leo were left to themselves.
"You haven't been to supper, Leo," said Maggie, when Dr. Fisher had gone.
"I don't seem to care about any supper," replied Leo, gloomily.
"You must eat your supper, Leo," added Maggie, as she placed the teapot on the table. "There are some cold sausages I saved for mon père. Sit down, Leo. We must work now, and we need all the strength we can get."