A COUNTRY DOCTOR'S EXPERIENCE.

T was summer-and summer in a rich and beautifully diversified country means a great deal-I was sitting under the trees of my orchard luxuriating in the sweet scent of flowers, in the song of birds, in the hum of insects. I got into a half-doze, and almost forgot the worries and troubles and trials of this passing mortal life, a life of which we doctors naturally see but too often the darker, drearier side. I say I was sitting dreamily thinking a good deal of God, of His goodness, and of the fearful ravages committed so continually by the arch-enemy Satan. It seemed to be very sad that a world so wondrously beautiful should be so marred, so disturbed, so changed by sin. I never could have much space for daydreams, for my life was a very busy one, and so, very naturally, my day-dreams now came to a sudden termination.

Oh, doctor, there you are, sir. I be main glad to see you, for I've a great trouble on my mind."

I started to my feet, and beheld the tall form of a young farm labourer. Strong, well-built, fair and ruddy, he seemed the very last person to need the advice of the doctor.

"You, Robin! Surely you are in excellent health, or your bright eyes and ruddy cheeks belie you."

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Well, sir, as you say, I'm all right, but it's poor mother. You remember, sir, how kind you were to her nine months back, when she came from the Leicester infirmary; her mind was that bad then that the doctor thought she'd have to be sent to the 'sylum, but she was a little better for one while now she's bad again."

"How is her mind affected, Robin? Is she sullen, as she was before?"

"Yes, sir, only a sight worse; and she skulks about shylike, as if for all the world she was thinking upon doing some great mischief. We watch her pretty closely, but she's

that cunning and keeps on muttering to herself, we've no peace 'long of it."

"I'm very sorry to hear it, Robin."

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Well, sir, you were so kind before, that in course we'd like your advice, sir, and something must be done."

"I'll ride over after breakfast, Robin; and go you into the kitchen and ask the housekeeper for something to eatI sent you."

say

At eleven o'clock that same day I went to the adjoining village and called on poor old Susan. There she sat in her bright tidy little room, morose, dogged, surly in the last degree.

"How are you, Susan ?"

A vacant stare. "What does it matter to you how I be?" "Oh-why, a great deal. Haven't I always been your friend, Susan? You might as well make a friend of me now. I see you're not well. It's your mind troubles you. Now tell me all about it."

She gave a sort of start, but said nothing. I went on:

"I shouldn't wonder, Susan, if you had very dark thoughts sometimes. You're half-inclined to make away with yourself. Life seems a burden too heavy for you to bear-only you don't know what may happen next."

She shuddered, then fixed her keen grey eyes upon me; there was a wonderful expression in them, a sort of reading of my mind, a look of intense scrutiny. I repeated my question now very earnestly, looking her steadily and steadfastly in the face.

"Susan, did you ever have it in your mind to do yourself a bodily injury?"

She looked hard at me, a long searching, steadfast gaze, then mumbled out, half-surlily

"You seem to know. Yes, I have. The devil led me down by the stream yonder-the beautiful mill-stream. It's very deep and clear, and he ordered me to jump in-he did."

"And you resisted, did you? I hope you did, for it's nothing short of murder, Susan."

"Well, I was frightened, and I said, 'Another timeanother time-not just now.""

"Never, I trust never, Susan. Surely you must have sense enough not to obey the devil."

I spoke stoutly and loudly-she quailed, but did not reply. "Where's your daughter Rebecca, who lived with me. as cook, and was married to Giles?"

"She's at home; she lives at Sileby."

I took my leave, and, cantering homewards, met poor Robin. A very sad expression rested on his fine manly features. He raised his hat respectfully, and smoothing the face of my pretty nag, looked inquiringly at me; his heart was too full for words; I understood the mute appeal.

"Her mind is very much affected, Robin."

"Oh, sir, pray do what you can for poor mother; we couldn't none of us abide the thought of her being in the lunatic 'sylum-pray, sir, can't nothing be done, sir?"

"I'll try, Robin-I will, indeed-it's a little out of my line, you know; still, if you will promise to do as I shall prescribe - God knows may be she may come round. First, then, send for Rebecca. She may be puzzled to leave her small family; but the case is urgent, if you really are earnest in your desire to keep your mother at home."

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Oh, sir, yes; she've been a real tender mother to all of us; it's our place now to look to her."

"You'll send immediately for your sister, then?”

"Yes, sir."

Rebecca was at the cottage the very next day—a fair, gentle, God-fearing woman-whom we all had loved and respected in her service in my family.

"Rebecca, I trust you have made your arrangements at home, so that you can remain some time with your poor mother."

"Yes, sir; she's been the best of mothers to us; it's only right now for us to do our part to her in her affliction." "Quite right, Rebecca-now mind my orders. You must

never leave your mother, night nor day. Wash her scrupulously all over night and morning with the clear fresh water from the running brook close by. After breakfast read ten or twelve verses out of St. John's Gospel-read them very clearly and distinctly-take her a pleasant short walk twice in the day; give her her food at regular intervals; in the evening read again about the same number of verses, continuing the same Gospel; when in bed read a short prayer; be very cheerful and kind, but never be led into explanations or arguments about your reading or anything else."

Rebecca acquiesced, and steadily and faithfully carried out my counsel.

At the end of three weeks there was a very marked improvement. When prayer-time came she said to Rebecca, "Say the Lord's Prayer." Of course her daughter did so, the poor woman joining fervently. At the end of a few more weeks I called-as I had often done in the interval. How well I remember the bright cheery look as she addressed me: "Oh, sir; oh, doctor-we've bet-we've bet-we've bet the devil, sir! I shan't drown myself now, doctor. Oh, no, thank God-thank God-that's all past and gone!" Then, gathering up her thoughts, she said, with beautiful, earnest simplicity,

"The Lord Jesus has preserved me; His mercy and His love have been showered upon me; and the tempter, Satan, the destroyer, has fled away."

Yes, and he had fled, most certainly. The remaining years of old Susan's life abundantly testified to this fact. She tenderly nursed one of her sons, who died of decline, and would beg of me to read those very passages to him which had proved such a lasting comfort to herself, most especially that wondrous chapter, John xvii., so full of tenderness and truth.

M. H. D..