This was a sermon which Gilbert Fenton had occasion to preach very often in the slow weary days that followed John Saltram’s recovery of his right senses.  The sick man, tossing to and fro upon the bed he loathed with such an utter loathing, could not refrain from piteous bewailings of his helplessness.  He was not a good subject for sickness, had never served his apprenticeship to a sick-bed until now, and the ordeal seemed to him a very long one.  In all that period of his delirious wanderings there had been an exaggerated sense of time in his mind.  It seemed to him that he had been lying there for years, lost in a labyrinth of demented fancies.  Looking back at that time, now that his reason had been restored to him, he was able to recall his delusions one by one, and it was very difficult for him to understand, even now, that they were all utterly groundless, the mere vagabondage of a wandering brain; that the people he had fancied close at hand, lurking in the next room—­he had rarely seen them close about his bed, but had been possessed with a vivid sense of their neighbourhood—­had been never near him; that the old friends and associates of his boyhood, who had been amongst these fancied visitors, were for the greater number dead and passed away long before this time; that he had been, in every dream and every fancy of that weary interval, the abject slave of his own hallucinations.  Little by little his strength came back to him by very slow degrees—­so slowly, indeed, that the process of recovery might have sorely tried the patience of any man less patient than Gilbert.  There came a day at last when the convalescent was able to leave his bed for an hour or so, just strong enough to crawl into the sitting-room with the help of Gilbert’s arm, and to sit in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows, very feeble of aspect, and with a wan haggard countenance that pleaded mutely for pity.  It was impossible to harbour revengeful feelings against a wretch so stricken.

Mr. Mew was much elated by this gradual improvement in his patient, and confessed to Gilbert, in private, that he had never hoped for so happy a result.  “Nothing but an iron constitution, and your admirable care, could have carried our friend through such an attack, sir,” he said decisively.  “And now that we are getting round a little, we must have change of air—­change of air and of scene; that is imperatively necessary.  Mr. Saltram talks of a loathing for these rooms; very natural under the circumstances.  We must take him away directly he can bear the removal.”

“I rather doubt his willingness to stir,” Gilbert answered, thoughtfully.  “He has anxieties that are likely to chain him to London.”

“If there is any objection of that kind it must be conquered,” Mr. Mew said.  “A change will do your friend more good than all the physic I can give him.”

“Where would you advise me to take him?”

“Not very far.  He couldn’t stand the fatigue of a long journey.  I should take him to some quiet little place near town—­the more countrified the better.  It isn’t a very pleasant season for the country; but in spite of that, the change will do him good.”