“What picture, sir?”

“Did I not tell you of it?  The portrait of a lovely female—­an old attachment, I suppose, that turned his brain, although I fancy sometimes that it is his mother or sister, for there is certainly a resemblance to himself in it.  The picture is set in gold.  When Robin first discovered it, the agony of the stricken wretch was most deplorable.  He was afraid that the man would remove it, and he screamed and implored like a true maniac.  When he found that he might keep it, he evinced the maddest pleasure, and beckoned his keeper to notice and admire it.  He pointed to the eyes, and then groaned and wept himself; until Robin was frightened out of his wits, and was on the point of throwing up his office altogether.”

“Do you think the man may recover his reason?”

“I have no hope of it.  It is a case of confirmed fatuity I believe.  If you like to see him again, you shall accompany me to-morrow when I visit him.  What a strange life is this, Stukely!  What a strange history may be that of this poor fellow whom Providence has cast at our door!  Well, poor wretch, we’ll do the best we can for him.  If we cannot reach his mind, we may improve his body, and he will be then perhaps quite as happy as the wisest of us.”

The clock struck twelve as Doctor Mayhew spoke.  It startled and surprised us both.  In a few minutes we separated and retired to our several beds.

When I saw the idiot on the following day, I could perceive a marked improvement in his appearance.  The deadly pallor of his countenance had departed; and although no healthy colour had taken its place, the living blood seemed again in motion, restoring expression to those wan and withered features.  His coal-black eye had recovered the faintest power of speculation, and the presence of a stranger was now sufficient to call it into action.  He was clean and properly attired, and he sat—­apart from his keeper—­conscious of existence.  There was good ground, in the absence of all positive proof, for the supposition of the doctor.  A common observer would have pronounced him well-born at a glance.  Smitten as he was, and unhinged by his sad affliction, there remained still sufficient of the external forms to conduct to such an inference.  Gracefulness still hovered about the human ruin, discernible in the most aimless of imbecility’s weak movements, and the limbs were not those of one accustomed to the drudgery of life.  A melancholy creature truly did he look, as I gazed upon him for a second time.  He had carried his chair to a corner of the room, and there he sat, his face half-hidden, resting upon his breast, his knee drawn up and pressed tightly by his clasped hands—­those very hands, small and marble-white, forming a ghastful contrast to the raven hair that fell thickly on his back.  He had not spoken since he rose.  Indeed, since his first appearance, he had said nothing but the unintelligible word which he had uttered four times