tells you. What’s her motive for wanting silence?” he abruptly added.
“She hasn’t give none to me, sir; she hasn’t said as she’s got a motive, or that she does want to find out anything. But when a person harps everlastingly upon one string, like a bell and a clapper, hammering to find out its top and its tail, one can’t be off suspecting, sir, that there’s a motive at the bottom.”
“I wonder———who she can be!” he said, in a musing tone, making a pause in the sentence, as marked.
“She’s uncommon close about herself,” was the answering observation of Mrs. Pepperfly.
Mr. Carlton said no more. Indeed there was not time for it, for he was called to by Mr. Lycett. An hour later he quitted Mrs. Knagg’s, his business there being over.
He reached home, buried in a reverie. The name, Smith, the information now furnished by Nurse Pepperfly, drew him to the not unnatural conclusion that she might be the Mrs. Smith spoken of as having taken away Mrs. Crane’s infant; the woman he had himself seen at Great Wennock railway station. If so, could this be the same child? He had asked the boy’s age that morning, and Mrs. Smith replied “six;” and the boy did not in appearance look more than six. That other child, if alive, would be considerably older; but Mr. Carlton knew that the look of children, as regards their age, is deceptive.
He entered his surgery, spoke a word or two to his assistant, Mr. Jefferson, mixed up a small phial of medicine with his own hands, and went out again, glancing at his watch. It was past six then, but their dinner hour was seven.
Near to his own house was a toy-shop, and as Mr. Carlton passed it he saw displayed in the window a certain toy—a soldier beating a drum. By pulling a wire, the arms moved and the drum sounded. He went in and asked the price. It was fifteen-pence. Mr. Carlton bought it, and carried it away with him.
Walking quickly up the Rise, he soon came to Tupper’s cottage. Mrs. Smith was seated in the parlour, darning socks; the little boy sat at the table, chattering to her and eating his supper. A bone of cold lamb was in one hand, a piece of bread in the other, and a plate was before him with some salt upon it.
“Well, and how is the little man now?” was the salutation of Mr. Carlton as he went in, with a pleasant tone and pleasant smile.
Mrs. Smith looked surprised. She had not expected the surgeon to call again that day.
“I have been thinking it might be as well if he took a little tonic medicine, which I did not order him this morning,” said that gentleman, producing the bottle from his pocket. “So I brought it myself, as I was coming up here. You’ll see the directions. Have the other things come?”
“Oh yes, sir; they were here by one o’clock.”
“Ah, yes. And so you are eating your supper, my little man! It’s rather early for that, isn’t it?”
“He gets so hungry about this time,” said the mother in a tone of apology. “And he is so fond of loin of lamb, he won’t rest if he knows it is in the house: he likes to eat it this way, in his fingers. There’s his cup of milk on the table.”
“As I am here I may as well look at his knee again, Mrs. Smith,” said the surgeon. She rose from her seat to undo the bandage; but Mr. Carlton preferred to undo it himself. The boy put down his bread and meat, and rubbed his fingers on his pinafore.
“It doesn’t hurt to-night,” cried he.
“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Carlton. “And now will you tell me your name, my little gentleman, for I have not heard it?”
“It’s George, sir,” interposed the mother before the child could speak. “It was his father’s name.”
“George, is it?” repeated Mr. Carlton, as he did up the leg again. “And where are the soldiers, George?”
“Gone home from drill,” was the laughing answer. “That one stands now.”
“To be sure it does,” said Mr. Carlton. “Have you got one to play the drum to the rest while they are at drill?”
He took the toy from his pocket and displayed it. Nothing could exceed the child’s delight at the sight. His eyes sparkled; his pale cheeks flushed a vivid crimson; his little thin hands shook with eagerness. Mr. Carlton saw what a sensitive nature it was, and he felt a pleasure as he resigned the toy.
“You are very kind, sir,” exclaimed the widow, her own face lighting up with pleasure. “His fondness for soldiers is something marvellous. I’m sure I don’t know any other doctor that would have done as much.”
“I saw it as I came by a shop a few minutes ago; and I thought it would please him,” was the reply of Mr. Carlton. “These poor sick children should have their innocent pleasures gratified when practicable. Good evening to you, Master George.”
The widow followed him into the garden. Perhaps the tender tone of some words in the last sentence had aroused her fears. “Have you a bad opinion of him, sir?” she whispered. “Won’t he get well?”
“I’ll do the best I can to get him well,”