ERHAPS you remember the story of “Puss in Boots”—how the talented and resolute cat caught game in the woods and presented it to the king as the gift of his master, the Marquis of Carabas. Then the cat advised his master to bathe in the river, and, as the king's coach rolled past, he set up a great shout that the Marquis of Carabas was drowning, and that his fine clothes had been stolen by thieves. The king stopped, ordered new clothes for the marquis, and took him into the royal coach. While they drove on, the cat ran ahead, and bullied the workers in the fields into saying that all the land belonged to Carabas.
There is more in the story, but the chief thing is that the cat secured for his master a fine castle and estate, and the hand of a beautiful princess. And, mind you, the young man was nothing on earth but the youngest son of a poor miller, the Marquis of Carabas being simply an invention of the clever animal's.
Well, there are people alive to-day who have the same ambition as that devoted cat—people who try to make a Marquis of Carabas out of some ordinary young man. Unfortunately, they do not always succeed. I know of a case in point.
There appeared one day in a certain town in Westchester a new doctor, arriving unknown and without introduction in the midst of a quite sufficient supply of well established practitioners. It was a prosperous town, but not a growing one. There seemed to be nothing for a new doctor to do, unless he set to work to create a demand for his services—a thing that doctors can't very well do. He put out his sign, however, on his tidy little house—“Noel Hunter, M.D.”—sat down behind his sign, and waited.
Now and then he was seen out on his veranda, looking at the barometer, or strolling out to the garage, where an energetic little car ate its head off in idleness. Whoever saw him was favorably impressed, because he was a charming young fellow, slender, tall, and dark, with an honest, good-humored face and very fine black eyes. Indeed, he was almost too handsome for a doctor. It was cruel to think of his being called out at night in all weathers, of having hurried and inadequate meals and too little sleep, of losing his endearing youth in arduous and exhausting toil.
Well, to be sure, that was not happening. He had ample time for sleep, and, providing he was able to pay, there was nothing to prevent his eating all day. And that, too, was a pity and a waste, because obviously he must be longing to give his medical services, and must have studied a long time to prepare himself. The people who lived on the same street felt embarrassed and a little guilty when they caught sight of Noel Hunter, M.D., all ready to be a doctor, but wanted by no one.
day there came to Mr. Miles, the rector of the parish, an affable little lady, dressed in a conservative style suited to her years—which were fifty-five or so—and presenting a letter from a clergyman in Brooklyn. The letter gave information that the bearer was Mrs. Edwin Carew, “whom we are more than sorry to lose, because of her tact and sympathy and her invaluable assistance in parish work.”
There was more of this, too, so that Mr. Miles blushed a little in deference to Mrs. Edwin Carew as he read it. He welcomed her very cordially. He assured her that she would find plenty of opportunities for using her tact and sympathy and for giving her invaluable assistance in parish work. He was so favorably impressed by the lady that he sent at once for Mrs. Miles, and Mrs. Miles was instantly charmed.
“The Needlework Guild is meeting now,” said she. “If you would care to come in and meet some of the ladies—”
Mrs. Carew accepted graciously, was brought before this gathering of her peers, and was judged and found worthy. She seemed to be the nicest sort of little body, cheerful and kindly and gentle, and though she was far too well bred to boast, it was obvious that she was a person of some social importance. She had traveled; she knew the world; she knew what was what; she was an acquisition.
“Are you going to be here permanently, Mrs. Carew?” asked the august and resplendent Mrs. Lorrimer.
“I hope so,” she answered, smiling. “I'm beginning to be quite fond of your pretty little town; but it all depends on my nephew. You see, he's used to life in a large city, and I'm afraid—Still, I hope he'll like it.”
“Oh! Your nephew?” said Mrs. Lorrimer encouragingly.