“What is your parentage?  Where were you born?”

“Well, my father was an Englishman, my mother was a Scotchman, I was born in Ireland, raised in Canady, and have lived for ten year in Number Nine.”

“How does your head feel now?”

“It feels as if every har was a pin.  Do you s’pose it’ll strike in?”

The Doctor looked him over as if he were a bullock, and went on with his statistics:  “Weight, about two hundred pounds; height, six feet two; temperament, sanguine-bilious.”

“Some time when you are in Sevenoaks,” said the Doctor, slipping his pencil into its sheath in his note-book, and putting his book in his pocket, “come and see me.”

“And stay all night?” inquired Jim, innocently.

“I’d like to see the case again,” said Dr. Radcliffe, nodding.  “I shall not detain you long.  The matter has a certain scientific interest.”

“Well, good-bye, Doctor,” said Jim, holding down his hair.  “I’m off for Number Nine.  I’m much obleeged for lettin’ me go round with ye; an’ I never want to go agin.”

Jim went out into the pleasant morning air.  The sun had dispelled the light frost of the night, the sky was blue overhead, and the blue-birds, whose first spring notes were as sweet and fresh as the blossoms of the arbutus, were caroling among the maples.  Far away to the north he could see the mountain at whose foot his cabin stood, red in the sunshine, save where in the deeper gorges the snow still lingered.  Sevenoaks lay at the foot of the hill, on the other hand, and he could see the people passing to and fro along its streets, and, perched upon the hill-side among its trees and gardens, the paradise that wealth had built for Robert Belcher.  The first emotion that thrilled him as he emerged from the shadows of misery and mental alienation was that of gratitude.  He filled his lungs with the vitalizing air, but expired his long breath with a sigh.

“What bothers me,” said Jim to himself, “is, that the Lord lets one set of people that is happy, make it so thunderin’ rough for another set of people that is onhappy.  An’ there’s another thing that bothers me,” he said, continuing his audible cogitations.  “How do they ’xpect a feller is goin’ to git well, when they put ’im where a well feller’d git sick?  I vow I think that poor old creetur that wanted me to kill her is straighter in her brains than any body I seen on the lot.  I couldn’t live there a week, an’ if I was a hopeless case, an’ know’d it, I’d hang myself on a nail.”

Jim saw his host across the road, and went over to him.  Mr. Buffum had had a hard time with his pipes that morning, and was hoarse and very red in the face.

“Jolly lot you’ve got over there,” said Jim.  “If I had sech a family as them, I’d take ’em ’round for a show, and hire Belcher’s man to do the talkin’.  ’Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and see how a Christian can treat a feller bein’.  Here’s a feller that’s got sense enough left to think he’s in hell.  Observe his wickedness, gentlemen, and don’t be afraid to use your handkerchers.’”