I was sitting in my office one morning waiting for patients, much of my time was passed in this way, very often I waited in vain. The modest sign which I was allowed to put on the outside of the house,

Dr. James Fenwick

didn't seem to attract attention. Of the little practise I had, at least a third was gratuitous. Yet I was expected to pay my bills, and when my little stock of money was exhausted there seemed a doubt as to whether the bills would be paid at all.

One day I was summoned to a house where a child of three was struggling with croup. It was a serious case, and I gave up my time to the case. After several hours I succeeded in bringing the child round and pronouncing her out of danger.

When I sent in my bill, the mother said:

"Dr. Fenwick, Mary is but three years old."

"Indeed!" I returned.

I failed to understand why I should be informed of this fact.

"And," continued the mother, "I don't think any charge ought to be made for a child so young."

I was fairly struck dumb with amazement at first.

Then I said, "The age of the patient has nothing to do with a physician's charges. Where did you get such an extraordinary idea?"

"I don't have to pay for her on the horse-cars."

"Madam," I said, provoked, "I will not argue with you. You ought to know that no physician treats children free. If you were very poor, and lived in a tenement house, I might make some discount, or leave off the charge altogether."

"But I don't live in a tenement house," objected the lady, angrily.

"No; you have the appearance of being very well to do. I must distinctly decline abating my charge."

"Then, Dr. Fenwick," said the mother, stiffly, "I shall not employ you again."

"That is as you please, madam."

This seemed to me exceptionally mean, but doctors see a good deal of the mean side of human nature. Rich men with large incomes keep them out of their pay for a long time, sometimes where their lives depended on the physician's skill and fidelity. Oftentimes I have been so disgusted with the meanness of my patients, that I have regretted not choosing a different profession. Of course there is a different side to the picture, and gratitude and appreciation are to be found, as well as the opposite qualities.

I had been waiting a long time without a patient, when a shuffling sound was heard on the stairs, and a heavy step approaching the door.

Next came a knock.

Instead of calling out, "Come in!" I was so pleased at the prospect of a patient, that I rose from my seat and opened the door, myself.

I started back in surprise. For in the heavy, lumbering figure of the new arrival I recognized Prof. Poppendorf.

"Prof. Poppendorf!" I exclaimed.

"Ja, doctor, it is I. May I come in?"

"Certainly."

Supposing that he had come to consult me on the subject of his health, I began to wonder from what disease he was suffering. Remembering his achievements at the table I fancied it might be dyspepsia.

The Professor entered the room, and sank into an armchair, which he quite filled from side to side.

"I suppose you are surprised to see me, Herr Doctor," began the Professor.

"Oh, no. I am never surprised to see anybody. I had not supposed you were sick."

"Sick! Oh, no, I'm all right. I eat well and I sleep well. What should be the matter with me?"

"I am glad to hear such good reports of you."

Was I quite sincere? I am afraid it was a disappointment to learn that my supposed patient was in no need of advice.

"Ja, I am well. I was never better, thank God!"

"Then I am to consider this a social call," I said with affected cheerfulness. "You are very kind to call upon me, Prof. Poppendorf. I appreciate it as a friendly attention."

"No, it is not quite dat."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I come on a little peezness."

I was puzzled. I could not understand what business there could be between the Professor and myself.

"I shall be glad to hear what it is."

"You see, I thought I would ask you if you were courting Mees Ruth Canby, if you mean to make her your wife?"

I dropped into the nearest chair—I had been standing—in sheer amazement. To be asked my intentions in regard to the young woman from Macy's was most astonishing, and by Prof. Poppendorf, too!

"Did Miss Canby send you here to speak to me?" I asked, considerably annoyed.

"Oh, no! she knows nothing about it."

"I can't understand what you have to do in the matter, Prof. Poppendorf. You are neither her father nor her brother."

"Oh, ja, you are quite right."

"Then why do you come to me with such a question?"

"I thought I would like to know myself."

"I deny your right to speak to me on the subject," I said, stiffly. "If now you had a good reason."

"But I have a reason," protested the Professor, earnestly.

"What is it?"

"I lofe her myself. I wish to make her my frau."

This was most astonishing.

"You love her yourself?"

"Ja, Herr Doctor."

"And you want to marry her?"

"Ja."

"But you are an old man."

"Not so old," said he, jealously; "I am only a little over sixty."

"And I think she cannot be over twenty-one."

"But I am a good man. I am strong. I am well. Look here!" and he struck his massive chest a sturdy blow, as if to show how sound he was.

"Yes, you seem to be well."

"You have not told me, Herr Doctor, if you lofe Mees Ruth," he said, uneasily.

"No, I don't love her."

"But you called to see her—at Macy's."

"I called to buy some socks and handkerchiefs."

"Was that all?" he asked, with an air of relief.

"It was all."

"Then you do not wish to marry Mees Ruth?"

"I do not wish to marry any one. I am not rich enough. Are you?"

"I have just engage to teach philosophy at Mees Smith's school on Madison Avenue. Then I have my private pupils. Ah, ja, I will make quite an income," he said, complacently. "Besides, Mees Ruth, she is a good housekeeper."

"I do not know."

"She will not wish to spend money," he said, anxiously.

"I think she was brought up economically."

"Ja, dat is good. All the German frauleins are good housekeepers. Dey can cook and keep house on a little money."

"Were you ever married, Professor?"

"Ja, long ago, but my frau she not live very long. It is many years ago."

"If you married Miss Canby would you still board here?"

"No, it would cost too much money. I would hire an apartment—what you call a flat, and Mees Ruth would keep the house—she would wash, she would cook, and—"

"Take care of the babies," I added, jocularly.

"Dat is as God wills."

"Have you spoken to Miss Ruth on the subject?"

"No, not yet. I wish to speak to you first—I thought you might want to marry her yourself."

"You need have no anxiety on that subject; I never thought of such a thing."

"Dat is good. I feel better."

"Have you any idea that Miss Canby will agree to marry you?"

"I do not know. I am a Herr Professor," he said, proudly.

In Germany there is a high respect felt for titles of every kind, and the Professor evidently thought that his official dignity would impress the young woman from Macy's.

"Still, you are so much older than she, that she may not at first like the idea."

"You think she refuse me—that she gives me the mitten?" he said, uneasily.

"If you propose too quick. Will you take my advice?"

"Ja, ja!"

"Then don't propose at once. Let her get accustomed to your attentions."

"What shall I do first?" he asked, anxiously.

"Suppose you invite her to go to the theatre with you?"

"Ja, dat is good!"

"Perhaps you could take her to hear Patti?"

"No, no. It cost too much!" said he, shaking his head.

"Then you might invite her to the Star Theatre to see Crane."

"So I will."

He rose and shuffled out of the office in a very pleasant humor. He felt that there was no obstacle to his suit, now that I had disclaimed all intention of marrying the young woman from Macy's.