“What is this for?” inquired Dr. Thorne, pointing to a sort of salver resting upon a low tripod directly in front of the picture.

“Where is Clarian?” asked I.

“He looks awful,” someone began in a whisper, when the lad’s feeble voice called out from the bedroom,—­

“Is it Ned and Mac?”

The door was pulled open, and Clarian came towards us.

“I am glad to see you, my friends.  Dr. Thorne, you are truly welcome.  Pray, be seated.  Mac, here is your place, you and your Shakspeare,” said he, indicating the chair and table in the recess.

I had held out my hand to the lad, but he turned away without taking it, and began to adjust the cords that moved the curtain.

“The tripod, Dr. Thorne,” said he, with a sickly smile, “is a—­a mere fancy of mine,—­childish,—­but in the salver I shall burn some pyrotechnic preparations, while the picture is being exhibited, by way of substitute for daylight.  Excuse me a moment,” added he, as he went into the bedroom again.

“Blount,” said Dr. Thorne, in my ear, “why have you permitted this?  What ails that boy?  If he is not cared for soon, he will go crazy.  Hush!—­here he comes,—­keep your eye on him.”

Then, as Clarian came out, and stood in the bedroom doorway, quite near me, I remarked the terrible change since I had last seen him.  He leaned against the door-frame, as if too weak to support himself erect; and I saw that his knees shook, his hands jerked, and his mouth twitched in a continual nervous unrest.  He had on a handsome robe de chambre of maroon velvet, which he seldom wore about college, though it was very becoming to him, its long skirts falling nearly to his feet, while its ample folds were gathered about his waist, and secured with cord and tassel.  His feet were thrust into neat slippers, and his collar rolled over a flowing black cravat a la Corsaire.  His long hair, which was just now longer than usual, was evenly parted in the middle, like a girl’s, and, combed out straight, fell down to his shoulders on either side.  All this care and neatness of dress made the contrast of his face stand out the more strikingly.  Its pallor was ghastly:  no other word conveys the idea of it.  His lips kept asunder, as we see them sometimes in persons prostrated by long illness, and the nether one quivered incessantly, as did the smaller facial muscles near the mouth.  His eyes were sunken and surrounded by livid circles, but they themselves seemed consuming with the dry and thirsty fire of fever:  hot, red, staring, they glided ever to and fro with a snake-like motion, as uncertain, wild, and painful, in their unresting search, as those of a wounded and captive hawk.  The same restlessness, approaching in violence the ceaseless spasmodic habit of a confirmed Chorea, betrayed itself in all his movements, particularly in a way he had of glancing over his shoulder with a stealthy look of apprehension, and the frequent starts and shivers that interrupted him when talking.  His voice also was changed, and in every way he gave evidence not only of disease of mind and body, but of a nervous system shattered almost beyond hope of reaction and recovery.  Trembling for him, I rose and attempted to speak with him aside, but he waived me off, saying, with that sickly smile which I had never before seen him wear,—­