THE RIGHT PRESCRIPTION.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXX, Issue 6451, 24 February 1908, Page 5

THE RIGHT PRESCRIPTION.

(By i I. Haldane Cook, \n “Cassell V} “The nurse and Duncan wont toll mo anything, Sir Walter. Make them ....off me i/ho chart,” ho whispered weakly, adding, with a smile, "After Ml, it's my iomxHir:lUlrf^/ , The nurse looked at the* consultant, who nodded.

The xuitjont, himself a doctor, looked ub the sinister ourveu of the ternx>erature oil art, and his f aeo foil a a ho murmured ; “So bad as that I” But in a moment ho looked up smilingly how many a friend had that smile of hi* gained him ! —and holding the chart out for he said; "Like, the viow from Zermatt,’’ Then imlicaf jug tho last and highest point; “Ami thai s L}iu Matterhorn. I shall never reach Zarmalt again. Sir Walter, how long ha vo I ?* 9 “My dear sir, you mustn’t talk like that. You 9 * “You mean you mustn’t. I feel like dying, and I want to know liow Jong i I have to live. Remember, J have had j many a three-cornered light witii thoj oM gentleman of the egg-gin,ss and the! reaping-hook, and I’ve often beaten

mm. So bo has a grudge against) me Now yon know why yon mustn’t tal like that, flow long, Sir Walter?” ‘Well, Dr. Brand, I should say abou six hours. You see, when ono oonsid era n “Ah, woli, please don’t, then. I knoi you aro a busy man, Sir Walter, an* I wouidn’ like to waste your time. Ik sides, I shall bo rather busy myself thi morning. But I shouldn’t wonder i you’re wrong. I am such a shoe kin; obstinate chap, and I never did kec] an appointment. I know you won* take a foe, but will you take tha sketch of mo over the mantelpiece, And sometimes it may recall to you] memory the man who wouldn’t bo son COS*" In a few minutes tho consultant loft and Dr Brond’s friend and neighbour Dr. Duncan, ca-ine back to tho sickroom, M Well, good-bye, old chap. Just n drink before you go—many a one we’v< had. No, nurse; no feeding-cup fm mo. I’ve always taken my drink like a Christian , and 111 do it now.” Thcq clinked then* tumblers together. “Chin

C'hin,” said the one. “Cheer oh !” .said the other. "My love. to your wife and the kiddies. Busy this morning!-” “Xr>; not particularly.” "Then just, run up to Highdown and fetch Vi—Vide;; ('heverilJ —buck with you in tho carnage.”

i "Vioh-t Chevcr;:! ! What do you want | with her? She, won't eorne, man; she j can't. Her mother ” I ‘ Jusb you do ius £ ask, like a good \ chap, . . . And —I say, Duncan, gooclOno band-clasp and they had parted. i ‘Poor old C harlie!” mused Dr. Dunlean, as ho drove along. "To think of i his going out like (Inks, after four days! !(;f course, his delirium was aw hi I far : the la-t eighy-and-forty hours, spouting po; I ry and singing love songs, slanging [.mother.* for negjom.ing their children, ami then saying his prayers at his mother's knee, It was pathetic to hoar him. But so gen; ie with it nil, and smilin'.'; that smile of his half the lime. And In* (vi. n't possibly pull through, with a double pneumonia like lie’s got , on iho too of a course of strenuous j

eve-work. Poor old chap ! Dow I shall miss him! How often have I welcomed

ie. his dhoery smile at some stiff job or .Ik other, when I was quite worn out, at all sorts of hours of tho night and day! ut Never put out: always the right add- vlco ln a case* And there ho is, slaving away amongst a miserable sot of worthjees wretches, who love him dearly, and 1 reason, but pay him seldom. Yes, they have killed dear old Charlie with • " overwork. "What was it he said about that snivelling, psalm-singing son of old Fulton’s, when ho died just a week a §° to-day? He for ever had some tag J P or other of rhyme for things. Never 1 t knew such a chap. s p ‘For some we loved, the loveliest and the best, -j_ That from his vintage Time hath prest, Have drunk their cup a round or two before., t> And ono by one crept silently to rest.’ Yes that is more liko what should go on ilia gravestone. He was always making the best of things and people, a And why didn’t ho get married? Such 'o a good husband he'd have made, tool ir But I never saw a symptom of matri:o mony about him. He used to say he ry was an (vhl maid. And now ho must :i, have Vi down to sco him I Surely he

i never wanted to marry her? If he did, I must have been particularly blind. I just thought they wero very good but now J come to think of jit, ho hasn't been there much for a long time. Hullo! There she is at tho window. Vi, I want you to come with me: go and got on your hat, and I’ll drive you.” ‘Til call and tell Mrs. Duncan said Vi m.schievously, “or I'll tell mother, and that would be worse,” “Vi, this timo it’s serious. Our dear friend Charlie is very ill, and ho wants to see you,” ‘Dr. Brend?” she asked, and her face paled. “Tell me the plain truth, ploaso.”

“Ah, Vi, it is good of you to como, dear, to say good-bye. I felt I cruid not have made a comfortable end *f vou had not oorne to give a friendly 'shout from tho hank when I was in the | deep waters. You'll stay just a little | while—not long—won’t you ? It will be I rather wearisome for you, I am afraid. In fact, I’m bored already myself, and I've just started. lie-sides, I've nothing much to say. Duncan told you all

about it, I suppose? They say I mad< ; an awful row shouting and going on; • but that’s all over. . ‘The tumult and the shouting dies, ' The Captains and the Kings depart/ I inquired very cautiously, but it soems I never mentioned your name, though 3 seean to have been dreaming of you all | the while. Anyhow, I am quite clear now; only so tired—so weak. Can you hear mo all right? ,W©ll, dear, I’ve seen you, and held your hand ,and so I can go and do the rest decently and quietly, by myself. You mustn’t cry, though. There’s enough water for me to swim through without that.” “Oh, don’t don’t I” “Don’t what? Make a joke of it? My dear girl, if I hadn’t joked through life, I must have wept. Nobody knows what an Aunt Sally I have been for fortune to shy at. Hero I am, after a series of misadventures, snulfing ut at five and thirty, with the biggest practice in the place and the smallest balance at the bank.” “Oh, don’t don’t! You’ll break my heart.”

“Well, well I won’t, then. I wish you would read me tho last two verses in this book-hero, where the mark is. I always liked them.”

’* ‘Ah, Moon of my Delight, who know’st no wane, The Moon of HeavTi is rising once: again : How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same garden after me—in vain. “ ‘ And when thyself with shining foot shall pass Among the guests star-scatter’d on the grass. And in thy joyous errand reach tho spot Where I made one—turn down an empty glass/ —“Oil, I don’t need to read them; I know the whole l>ook by heart/' “By heart? Do you really? Well, Cake tho book, with my love. But it's timo you went now. You know, I’m not sorry to he done with it all. I was sort of happy in my lovo for you, though you couldn’t care for me. How should you? And if I can’t have you, I don’t care to stay on. And so good-

Ie bye, dear. Xfc was good of you to oomo, I ’ an< ? better for your visit. . . It’s rather feeble of me, but will you give me that kiss which, as a strong man, I j was unable to win from you? Your ts has put heart into me, and now I j can go.” H She fell on her knees, weeping on his r hand and kissing it. u “Oh, Charlie, Charlie, don’t leave e mei Don’t, don’t]” o “But, dear, you musn’t be sentimend tal. This news about me has been a r, shock to you; and this visit has been e too much for you, and I don’t wonder at it. You know, it’s only that you’re sorry that your old friend is passing out of your life.” ? “Oh, no, it’s not, Charlie! You asked h me three years ago, and then again s last autumn; and when you left me in * r the summerhouse that September afterr noon, though I bad just said ‘No,’ I t knew that I was wrong, and I would t havo called you back. But you were gone in an instant! And that’s why i c 1 took to reading the ‘Rubaiyat.’ You on.o told me that it had often comfort- ( ? ed you, and it cheered and comforted me many a time. And I read it til] .

I knew it by heart. Oh, why you ask mo a third time?” “It’s on the late side now, I’m afraid. But,” and he smiled, “why didn’t you tell mo sooner?” Then his face became grave. ‘‘Didn’t I tell you,” h© whispered almost fiercely, “that I had to joke through life to keep the tears back? Just think of it! A fitting climax to it all' '1 he one' woman I ever loved; she wouldn't look at me; and when I have an hour or two to live, I find she loves mo! Hard, Isn’t it? But, oh, Vi, I am sorry for you! What can I do dear?” ‘ Oh, don’t leave me, Charlie, Charlie r j “Give me that thermometer on the dressing-table,” he said in a more audible voice. ‘T told you I felt better since you came, and I believe I am Just put it in my mouth.” He looked at it, after a painful minute ha] passed, “Can yon read it for me? I car *t see. No! Is it? Put it in again.” Again she read the index—barely on© hundred degrees. r T always was an obstinate chap, and I will not die—not at present, anyhow. I Give mo two tablespoonfuls of that I milk and two teaspoons of whisky, and | l’ll have a nap. I’m tired —quite an

I exciting morning. Please don’t spill on the <s"arpet; cost me seven pound ten, with the ten shillings off for cash. Ring the bell, please. Nurse, I’m on the mend; I have come safely down the Matterhorn, and I’m going to spend my honeymoon at Zermatt. No, Pm raving again; I tell you Fve turned over a new leaf, “And about that picture. Sir Walter can keep it, just to remind him that a first-class consultant sometimes does make a mistake. Keep the house quiet, will you, nurse, and let me get forty winks. My friend here will stay with me. .. . Ah, Vi! I have found the right prescription at last—and such an elegant one, too! Hold my hand, dear; you’ve pulled me out of the' River. And, by the way, what was it (you were saying about that kissP”