matters. 

     "I understand," said the doctor. 

     "If anything happened to me—" began the patient. 

     "Nothing shall happen," said the other.  "Stay in bed to-morrow morning, and I'll come round and overhaul you." 

     Mrs. Gribble hesitated.  "You might examine me and think I was all right," she objected; "and at the same time you wouldn't know how I feel." 

     "I know just how you feel," was the reply.  "Good-bye." 

     He came round the following morning and, following the dejected Mr. Gribble upstairs, made a long and thorough investigation of his patient. 

     "Say 'ninety-nine,'" he said, adjusting his stethoscope. 

     Mrs. Gribble ticked off "ninety-nines" until her husband's ears ached with them. The doctor finished at last, and, fastening his bag, stood with his beard in his hand, pondering. He looked from the little, whitefaced woman on the bed to the bulky figure of Mr. Gribble. 

     "You had better lie up for a week," he said, decidedly.  "The rest will do you good." 

     "Nothing serious, I s'pose?"  said Mr. Gribble, as he led the way downstairs to the small parlour. 

     "She ought to be all right with care," was the reply. 

     "Care?"  repeated the other, distastefully.  "What's the matter with her?" 

     "She's not very strong," said the doctor; "and hearts don't improve with age, you know. Under favourable conditions she's good for some years yet. The great thing is never to thwart her. Let her have her own way in everything." 

     "Own way in everything?"  repeated the dumbfounded Mr. Gribble. 

     The doctor nodded.  "Never let her worry about anything," he continued;     "and, above all, never find fault with her." 

     "Not," said Mr. Gribble, thickly—"not even for her own good?" 

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