82 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
was repeated on various parts of the suffering 
patient’s body. Then the old gentleman—who, by 
this time, had passed from whimpering through the 
various stages of growing indignation to sheer 
undisguised profanity—was restored to his apparel. 
The procession was re-formed, and the bee-master 
conducted it to the waiting carriage, with the same 
ceremony as before. 
As we stood looking after the retreating vehicle, 
the old bee-man entered into explanations. 
“‘ That,”’ said he, ‘‘is Lord H , and he has 
been a martyr to rheumatism these ten years back. 
I could have cured him long ago if he had only 
come to me before, as I have done many a poor 
soul in these parts; but he, and those like him, are 
the last to hear of the physician in the hive. He 
will begin to get better now, as you will see. He 
is to be brought here every fortnight; but in a 
month or two he will not need the chair. And 
before the winter is out he will walk again as well 
as the best of us.” 
We went slowly back through the bee-farm. 
The working-song of the bees seemed as loud as 
ever in the keen October sunshine. But the steady 
deep note of summer was gone; and the peculiar 
bee-voice of autumn—shrill, anxious, almost 
vindictive—rang out on every side. 
“Of course,’’ continued the bee-master, ‘‘ there 
is nothing new in this treatment of rheumatism by 
bee-stings. It is literally as old as the hills. Every 
bee-keeper for the last two thousand years has 
known of it. But it is as much as a preventive as 
a cure that the acid in a bee’s sting is valuable. 
The rarest thing in the world is to find a bee-keeper 
