shall probably lie awake anyhow."

Frederick was causing them no little anxiety. The boy wasn't eating
well. He was beginning to look a bit peaked. Dr. Fiddler was puzzled.
He could not discover anything wrong, and yet could not account for
the listlessness that had come over the lad during the past few weeks.

As a matter of fact, Frederick was in love--quite desperately in love.
The object of his adoration was the beautiful Miss Fairweather. No
doctor in the world could have properly diagnosed the youngster's
case, for the simple reason that Frederick's disease was a perfectly
healthy one, and when you confront a doctor with anything in the
nature of health you stump him completely. He doesn't know what to do
about it. Nevertheless, Dr. Fiddler--being a great man and entirely
ignorant of Frederick's complaint--gave him castor oil.

Now this same Dr. Fiddler undoubtedly had been in love at the tender
age of twelve. What man is there to-day who was not desperately
afflicted at that age, and who is there among us that has forgotten
the experience? Who is there among us, past the age of thirty, who
cannot tell without an instant's hesitation, the name of the mature
young lady who first assailed his susceptibilities? Who can honestly
say that he doesn't remember the school-teacher, or the choir-singer
who taught the Sunday-school class, or the lady who came to visit
mother and went away engaged to a friend of father's, or the nurse who
queened it over the house when mother was ill and who devoted entirely
too much time to the new baby? There is always one full-grown,
lamentably old young lady in the life of every boy, and her name is
imperishable. It is invariably MISS Somebody-or-other. No man can
recall the Christian name of his first love for the very good reason