"He's been sick most all the way," she said. "There's something the

matter with his ear, I think, as he complains of that. Do children ever

die with the earache?"

Irving Stanley hardly thought they did. At all events, he never heard of

such a case, and then, after suggesting a remedy, should the pain

return, he left his new acquaintance.

"A part of your seat, sir, if you please," and Irving's voice was rather

authoritative than otherwise, as he claimed the half of what the doctor

was monopolizing.

It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was asleep, for Irving

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spoke so like a man who knew what he was doing, that the doctor was

compelled to yield, and turning about, recognized his Saratoga

acquaintance. The recognition was mutual, and after a few natural

remarks, Irving explained how he had given his seat to a lady, who

seemed ready to drop with fatigue and anxiety concerning her little

child, who was suffering from the earache.

"By the way, doctor," he added, "you ought to know the remedy for such

ailments. Suppose you prescribe in case it returns. I do pity that young

woman."

Dr. Richards stared at him in astonishment.

"I know but little about babies or their aches," he answered at last,

just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed

effort on the mother's part to soothe her suffering child.

The pain must have been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his

agony, writhed from Adah's lap and sank upon the floor, his waxen hand

pressed convulsively to his ear, and his whole form quivering with

anguish as he cried, "Oh, ma! ma! ma! ma!"

The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene, and many now

gathered near, offering advice and help, while even Dr. Richards turned

toward the group gathering by the door, experiencing a most

unaccountable sensation as that baby cry smote on his ear. Foremost

among those who offered aid was Irving Stanley. His was the voice which

breathed comfort to the weeping Adah, his the hand extended to take up

little Willie, his the arms which held and soothed the struggling boy,

his the mind which thought of everything available that could possibly

bring ease.

"Who'll give me a cigar? I do not use them myself. Ask him," he said,

pointing to the doctor, who mechanically took a fine Havana from the

case and half-grudgingly handed it to the lady, who hurried back with it

to Irving Stanley.

To break it up and place it in Willie's ear was the work of a moment,

and ere long the fierce outcries ceased as Willie grew easier and lay

quietly in Irving Stanley's arms.




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