I was accustomed to remain in my office till about four o'clock in the afternoon waiting for possible patients. It was a long and weary wait, and oftentimes not a caller rewarded me. I suppose it is the usual fortune of young medical practitioners who are comparatively unknown. When four o'clock came I went out for a walk. Generally my steps tended to Sixth Avenue where there was some life and bustle.

I was compelled to practise the most rigid economy, but I could not deny myself the luxury of an evening paper. I would buy either the Sun or World, each of which cost but a penny. One little newsboy came to know me, and generally lay in wait for me as I emerged from a side street. He was a bright, attractive little boy of ten, whose name I found to be Frank Mills. His clothing was well-worn but clean, and his whole appearance was neat, so that I judged he had a good mother.

Usually Frank's manner was cheerful, but on the day succeeding my visit to the Park I found he looked sober and his eyes looked red as if he had been crying.

"What is the matter, Frank?" I asked.

"My sister is sick," he said, sadly.

"Is it an older sister?"

"Yes; she works at O'Neil's dry goods store. She has been sick two days."

"What is the matter?"

"Mother thinks it is a fever."

"Have you called a doctor?"

"N—no," answered Frank.

"Why not?"

"We haven't any money to pay a doctor. We are very poor, and now that sister isn't working I don't know how we shall get along. There is no one to earn money except me, and I don't make more than thirty cents a day."

"If I were rich, Frank, I would help you."

"I am sure you would, sir, for you look like a kind gentleman."

This simple tribute went to my heart. The boy felt that I was a friend, and I determined that I would be one so far as I was able.

"Still I can do something for you. I am a doctor, and if you will take me round to your house I will look at your sister and see if I can do anything for her."

The boy's eyes lighted up with joy.

"Will you be so kind, sir? I will go with you now."

"Yes, Frank, the sooner the better."

I followed him for perhaps a quarter of a mile to a poor house situated on one of the side streets leading down to the North River. The street was shabby enough, and the crowd of young children playing about showed that it was tenanted by poor families, rich in children if nothing else.

Frank stopped at one of these houses and opened the door into a dirty hall.

"We live on the top floor," he said, "if you won't mind going up."

"I shall mind it no more than you, Frank," I said. "I am still a young man."

We climbed three staircases, and stood on the upper landing.

"I'll go in and tell mother I have brought a doctor," said Frank. "Just wait here a minute."

He opened a door and entered. He came out again almost immediately. He was followed by a woman of perhaps forty, with a pleasant face, but looking very sad.

"Welcome, doctor," she said. "Frank tells me you were kind enough to offer us your services."

"Yes, I am glad to do what I can for you."

"This is my daughter. I feel very much worried about her."

The daughter lay on a bed in an inner room (there were but two). She was pale and looked ill-nourished, but in spite of the delicacy of her appearance, she was pretty.

"Alice, this is the doctor," said her mother. Alice opened her eyes languidly, and tried to smile.

"Let me feel your pulse," I said.

The pulsations were slow and feeble.

The mother fixed her eyes upon me anxiously, and awaited my verdict.

"Your daughter is quite run down," I said. "She has very little strength, but I do not find any positive indications of disease."

"You are right, no doubt, doctor," said the mother with a sigh. "She is a delicate girl, and I am sure she was overworked."

"She is employed in a dry goods store, Frank tells me."

"Yes, she is at O'Neil's. They are very considerate there, but it is hard to be standing all day."

"It would be hard for any one. I am a man and strong, but I don't think I could endure it. She ought to have two weeks' rest, at least, before returning to work."

"I am sure you are right, doctor," said Mrs. Mills, "but how can it be managed? We have but two breadwinners, Frank and Alice. Frank, poor boy, brings in all he can, but Alice earns six dollars a week. It is upon that that we depend for our living. It is a hard thing to be poor, doctor."

"Indeed it is," I answered.

"You speak as if you know something about it."

"I do. I am a young physician, with very little money, and few patients. Life with me is a struggle, as it is with you."

I was well dressed—that is a necessity with a professional man, who must keep up appearances—and this perhaps made it difficult for Mrs. Mills to believe that I was really poor.

"What do you prescribe, doctor?"

"No medicines are needed. What your daughter needs most is strengthening food—to begin with a little beef tea."

Mrs. Mills looked embarrassed. I understood her embarrassment. What I ordered was simple enough; but where was the money to come from, to supply the sick girl's needs?

"I can make some beef tea," she said, after a pause, "and some bread."

"It is just the thing," I said, cheerfully.

"Then you don't think she needs any medicine?"

"No."

There was still that anxious look on the mother's face. Alice was the breadwinner, and she was sick. How were they to live?

An idea came to me.

"I will call again to-morrow morning," I said, cheerfully.

"You are very kind, doctor. I should like to pay you, but we are so miserably poor."

"Don't let that trouble you for a moment. I can give you some of my time, for of that I have plenty."