The kindly bishop watched the young man closely and, after much serious thought, wrote to his personal friend, Dr. Marmion, of New York, inviting him to the Monastery to take a day or two of rest.  Nancy exhausted her ingenuity to tempt and increase his appetite, but nothing served to help him, and what made matters worse, he seemed to have no desire to improve.  True, he was just as exact and faithful in the discharge of his official duties, and in the correspondence, which was without dictation, there was quite as much courtesy, but it all lacked that freshness that had marked the past.  The organ gave forth notes just as harmonious and perfect, but the music lacked the brilliancy and uplifting power that had hitherto characterized it.  Indeed, his youthfulness seemed to have departed, and maturity, if not old age, taken its place.  Previously Carl’s full and joyous laugh had attracted scores toward him; now, however, a quiet smile was frequently the only indication that he was pleased, and even a sprinkling of gray hair was here and there seen among the curly brown locks.  Once it had been a trick of his to leap from the ground to the back of Allick, Sparrow’s tallest horse, but he now declined mounting a horse at all.  The strong and springy step was gone and his feet shuffled like those of a very old man.

One day the bishop entered the office where Carl was at work, accompanied by a plain-looking man, possibly forty years of age.  He was of medium stature, with broad and prominent brow, great brown eyes, and prominent nose.  But the most significant and impressive feature of the man’s face was his eyes—­large, brown, and possessed of that peculiar quality which made them grow luminous when he was much interested and almost frightful when excited.  He was introduced to Carl as Mr. Marmion, from New York.  As Carl had no particular interest in the New York gentleman, after a few words of commonplaces he turned away and resumed his work; but the bishop having slipped out, the stranger seemed to call for the courtesy of the secretary.

“Take that easy chair, Mr. Marmion,” said Carl.  “Bishop Albertson will no doubt return presently.”

“Bishop Albertson tells me that you are just recovering from a severe illness, Mr. Edwards,” said Mr. Marmion, as he sat down in the comfortable chair.

“Yes, I have been quite ill with typhoid fever,” was the reply.

“Are you sleeping and eating well?”

“No, not by any means.  If I am gaining at all, it is a very slow gain.  I have almost an aversion to food, and every exertion is a task.”

“Ah, that ought not to be,” said the gentleman.  “You are surely not gaining if you can neither eat nor sleep.  Perhaps your liver is not right.  What is the doctor giving you?” Carl handed him the bottle containing the medicine, which he uncorked and after touching the liquid to his tongue remarked:  “It seems to be the right stuff.  I’m something of a doctor, myself, and I must help to shake up that liver.  Who is your doctor?”