’Perhaps so; but, you see, I do not wish to be different from my neighbours,’ I replied quietly; but my speech was received by Mr. Hamilton with a hearty laugh.

‘Oh yes, you are right:  we are a proud lot,’ he observed, as he rose to take leave.  ’Well, Miss Garston, after Christmas is over, we shall hope to see you for an evening; but any afternoon you are free they will be glad to see you.  Etta makes excellent tea.  What a craze five-o’clock tea is with you women!  I have protested against it in vain:  the girls are in majority against me.’  With this speech he took himself off.  I was much relieved at this peaceable ending to our interview.  Now he was gone I could scarcely believe that I had ventured on a joke with the formidable Mr. Hamilton, a joke which he had taken in excellent part.  I began to feel less in awe of him:  he certainly knew how to shake hands heartily, and I could recapitulate Lady Betty’s criticism on myself and apply it to him, for when Mr. Hamilton smiled he looked quite a different man,—­years younger, and much better looking.  Well, I was glad that he had such a good opinion of my common sense.

My hands were likely to be full of business until after Christmas.  Mrs. Marshall was growing gradually weaker, and Mr. Hamilton was doubtful whether she would last to see the New Year in.  Her husband would be home on Christmas Eve; his work at Lewes would be finished by then, and he hoped to find work nearer home.  Poor Mary told me this with tears in her eyes; her one prayer was that she might be spared to see Andrew again.  ’He has been a good husband to me, and has kept out of the public-house for the sake of his wife and the children, and I cannot die easy until I have said good-bye to him,’ finished the poor woman; but when I repeated this to Mr. Hamilton he shook his head.  ’A few hours may take her off any day,’ he said; ’it is only a wonder that she has lasted so long.  I believe she is keeping herself alive by the sheer force of her longing to see her husband.  Women are strange creatures, Miss Garston.’

My new patient was likely to give me plenty of occupation.  I found the poor little fellow, looking very forlorn and dull, lying in a dark corner of a large chilly garret, which was evidently shared by two or three brothers.

Mrs. Bell, who had left her washing-tub to accompany me upstairs, stood drying her arms on her apron, and talking in a high-pitched querulous voice.  ‘No one can say I have not been unfortunate this year,’ she grumbled.  ’There’s Bell, he gets worse and worse.  I fetched him myself out of the Man and Plough last Saturday night, where he was drinking the money that was to buy the children bread.  “Do you call yourself a man or a brute?” I says, but in my opinions it’s wronging the poor bruteses to compare them with such as him.  “Work!” says he; “why don’t you work yourself?” when I am at that wash-tub from morning till night.’

‘And now poor Robin is adding to your trouble, Mrs. Bell,’ I observed, with a pitying look at the child’s white face and large wistful eyes.