The curtain falls and rises again after an interval of three months.

There have been some changes in our boarding-house. Prof. Poppendorf still occupies his accustomed place, and so does Miss Blagden. The young reporter still sits at my left, and entertains me with interesting gossip and information about public affairs and public men with whom he has come in contact.

But the young woman from Macy's has left us. She has returned to her country home and is now the wife of her rustic admirer, Stephen Higgins. I think she has done wisely. Life in the great stores is a species of slavery, and she could save nothing from her salary. When Prof. Poppendorf heard of her marriage, he looked depressed, but I noticed that his appetite was not affected. A true Teuton seldom allows anything to interfere with that.

Mrs. Gray has received two or three notes from the Countess di Penelli. They treated of business matters solely. Whether she has discovered that her husband's title is spurious I cannot tell. I hear, however, from a drummer who is with us at intervals, that she is keeping a boarding-house on Spring Garden street, and that her title has been the magnet that has drawn to her house many persons who are glad in this way to obtain a titled acquaintance.

As for myself I am on the high road to a comfortable income. I was fortunate enough to give my rich patient so much relief that I have received the large check he promised me, and have been recommended by him to several of his friends. I have thought seriously of removing to a more fashionable neighborhood, but have refrained—will it be believed?—from my reluctance to leave the Disagreeable Woman. I am beginning to understand her better. Under a brusque exterior she certainly possesses a kind heart, and consideration for others. Upon everything in the shape of humbug or pretension she is severe, but she can appreciate worth and true nobility. In more than one instance I have applied to her in behalf of a poor patient, and never in vain.

Yet I am as much in the dark as ever as to her circumstances and residence. Upon these subjects I have ceased, not perhaps to feel, but to show any curiosity. The time was coming, however, when I should learn more of her.

One day a young girl came to my office. Her mother kept a modest lodging house on West Eleventh street, and she had been my patient.

"Any one sick at home, Sarah?" I asked.

"No, doctor, but we have a lodger who is very low with a fever. I think he is very poor. I am afraid he cannot pay a doctor, but mother thought you would be willing to call."

"To be sure," I said, cheerfully, "I will be at your house in an hour."

An hour found me ringing at the door of Mrs. Graham's plain lodging house.

"I thought you would come, Dr. Fenwick," said the good woman, who personally answered the bell. "You come in good time, for poor Mr. Douglas is very sick."

"I will follow you to his room."

He occupied a small room on the third floor. It was furnished in plain fashion. The patient, a man who was apparently nearing fifty, was tossing restlessly on his bed. Poorly situated as he was, I could see that in health he must have been a man of distinguished bearing. Poverty and he seemed ill-mated.

"Mr. Douglas," said the landlady, "this is Dr. Fenwick. I took the liberty of calling him, as you are so ill."

The sick man turned upon me a glance from a pair of full, black eyes.

"Dr. Fenwick," he said, sadly, "I thank you for coming, but I am almost a pauper, and I fear I cannot pay you for your services."

"That matters little," I replied. "You need me, that is enough. Let me feel your pulse."

I found that he was in a high fever. His symptoms were serious. He looked like a man with a constitution originally strong, but it had been severely tried.

"Well?" he asked.

"You are seriously ill. I am not prepared just now with my diagnosis, but I can tell better in a day or two."

"Shall I be long ill?" he asked.

"It will take time to recover."

"Shall I recover?" he asked, pointedly.

"We will hope for the best."

"I understand. Don't think I am alarmed. Life has few charms for me. My chief trouble is that I shall be a burden to you and Mrs. Graham."

"Don't think of me, I have a fair practise, but I have time for you."

"Thank you, doctor. You are very kind."

"Let me put down your name," I said, taking down my tablets.

"My name is Philip Douglas."

I noted the name, and shortly left him.

I felt that in his critical condition he ought to have a nurse, but where was the money to come from to pay one?

"He is no common man," I reflected. "He has been rich. His personal surroundings do not fit him."

Somehow I had already come to feel an interest in my patient. There was something in his appearance that set me wondering what his past could have been.

"It must have been his misfortune, not his fault," I decided, for he bore no marks of dissipation.

Under favorable circumstances I felt that I could pull him through, but without careful attendance and generous living there was great doubt. What should I do? I decided to speak of his case to the Disagreeable Woman.