The doctor looked at the young man attentively. "And yet," said he in a gentler voice, "you, young man, are, by your account, a perfect stranger to her, or were so when you undertook to bring her to London. You have a good heart—always keep it. Very healthy thing, sir, a good heart—that is, when not carried to excess. But you have friends of your own in town?"
Leonard.—"Not yet, sir; I hope to make them."
Doctor.—"Bless me, you do? How? I can't make any."
Leonard colored and hung his head. He longed to say "Authors find friends in their readers—I am going to be an author." But he felt that the reply would savor of presumption, and held his tongue.
The Doctor continued to examine him, and with friendly interest. "You say you walked up to London—was that from choice or economy?"
Leonard.—"Both, sir."
Doctor.—"Sit down again and let us talk. I can give you a quarter of an hour, and I'll see if I can help either of you, provided you tell all the symptoms—I mean all the particulars."
Then with that peculiar adroitness which belongs to experience in the medical profession, Dr. Morgan, who was really an acute and able man, proceeded to put his questions, and soon extracted from Leonard the boy's history and hopes. But when the Doctor, in admiration at a simplicity which contrasted so evident an intelligence, finally asked him his name and connections, and Leonard told them, the homœopathist actually started. "Leonard Fairfield, grandson of my old friend, John Avenel of Lansmere! I must shake you by the hand. Brought up by Mrs. Fairfield!—Ah, now I look, strong family likeness—very strong!"
The tears stood in the Doctor's eyes. "Poor Nora!" said he.
"Nora! Did you know my aunt?"