"Yes?" The mother bent forward and regarded her curiously, attentively.
"He lived very near us. He did a great deal of good—among the poor." She put her hand to her slender white throat, then dropped it again in her lap. Then, looking in Lady Thryng's eyes, she said: "I have seen your picture. I should have known you from that, but you are more beautiful."
"Oh! That can hardly be, my dear! It was taken many years ago, you know."
"Yes, he said so—his lordship—only there we called him Doctah Thryng."
A shadow flitted over the mother's face. "He was a practitioner over there—never in England."
"That is a pity; it is such noble work. But perhaps he has other things to do here."
"He has—even more noble work than the practice of medicine."
"What does he do here?" asked Cassandra, in a low voice.
"He must take part in the affairs of government. Very ordinary men may study and practise medicine, but unless men who are wise, and are nobly born and bred, make it their business to care for the affairs of their country, the nation would soon be wrecked. That is what saves England and makes her great."