remained forgotten in his pocket for nearly two days. The one means of
setting this unlucky error right, without further delay, was to deliver
his prescription himself, and to break through his own rules for the
second time by attending to a case of illness--purely as an act of
atonement.

The patient lived in a house nearly opposite to the British Museum. In
this northward direction he now set his face.

He made his apologies, and gave his advice--and, getting out again into
the street, tried once more to shape his course for the College of
Surgeons. Passing the walled garden of the British Museum, he looked
towards it--and paused. What had stopped him, this time? Nothing but a
tree, fluttering its bright leaves in the faint summer air.

A marked change showed itself in his face.

The moment before he had been passing in review the curious little
interruptions which had attended his walk, and had wondered humorously
what would happen next. Two women, meeting him, and seeing a smile on
his lips, had said to each other, "There goes a happy man." If they had
encountered him now, they might have reversed their opinion. They would
have seen a man thinking of something once dear to him, in the far and
unforgotten past.

He crossed over the road to the side-street which faced the garden. His
head drooped; he moved mechanically. Arrived in the street, he lifted
his eyes, and stood (within nearer view of it) looking at the tree.

Hundreds of miles away from London, under another tree of that gentle