Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was
that strangers would mistake him for a foreigner. He was short and
stout, with bushy eyebrows and a grey moustache, and looked so
fierce that children cried when they saw him, until he patted them
on the head and addressed them as "mein leedle frent" in a voice so
soft and tender that they had to leave off howling just to wonder
where it came from. He and Peter, who was a vehement Radical, had
been cronies for many years, and had each an indulgent contempt for
the other's understanding, tempered by a sincere affection for one
another they would have found it difficult to account for.

"What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?" demanded Dr.
Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter glanced round the room.
The kitchen door was closed.

"How do you know it's a wench?"

The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder. "If id is not a
wench, why dress it--"

"Haven't dressed it," interrupted Peter. "Just what I'm waiting to
do--so soon as I know."

And Peter recounted the events of the preceding evening.

Tears gathered in the doctor's small, round eyes. His absurd
sentimentalism was the quality in his friend that most irritated
Peter.

"Poor leedle waif!" murmured the soft-hearted old gentleman. "Id