conventional Frenchman. Yet there is in him something very soft and
tender, which appears when he looks at that child, with deep dark eyes
that always seem to behold things beyond the ordinary ranges of vision.

"Ah! Glad to see you!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe as I entered the room. "A
broken leg is no fun, but I can say that I got on rather better than I
expected to. The pain has been no more than I can stand. I'll be through
with this in a minute."

He swallowed his last mouthful of coffee, and Susie Sweetapple, the
improvised domestic, took away a flat board with which she had made a
tray.

"Is you real sure you got enough?" she enquired solicitously. "Them
porridges doesn't stick long to folks' ribs, but if yer stummick gits ter
teasin' yer afore dinner time jist bawl out. 'Tain't never no trouble ter
bile th' kittle again."

"Thank you," said Mr. Jelliffe, as the girl left the room. "I have not
yet decided, Doctor, whether that young female is an unmitigated nuisance
or a pearl of great price. At any rate we couldn't get along without
her."

In a few minutes I was allowed to inspect the broken leg, which was
resting properly on the pillow. The swelling was not too great, and the
patient declared that the confounded thing was doubtless as comfortable
as such a beastly affair could be. Mr. Jelliffe possesses some notions of
philosophy.

"A schooner is leaving to-day for St. John's, Mr. Jelliffe," I told him.