"Can I do anything, Doctor?" he asked, in an altered voice. "You know—you would see, that money is not very plentiful; are there any comforts or dainties she ought to have?"
"No," replied the Doctor, shaking his head. "She craves for fruit,—she has a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in the market."
"You will tell me, if there is anything I can do,I'm sure," replied Mr. Thornton. "I rely upon you."
"Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your purse,— I know it's deep enough. I wish you'd give me carte-blanche for all my patients, and all their wants."
But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence,— no universal philanthropy; few even would have given him credit for strong affections. But he went straight to the first fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them,—the richest-coloured peaches,—the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, "Where shall we send them to, sir?"
There was no reply. "To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?"
"No!" Mr. Thornton said. "Give the basket to me,—I'll take it."
It took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young lady of his acquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it
