Poor Jim!  He did not know that the shock to which he had subjected the enfeebled lunatic was precisely what was needed to rouse every effort of nature to effect a cure.  He could not measure the influence of the subtle earth-currents that breathed over him.  He did not know that there was better medicine in the pure air, in the balsamic bed, in the broad stillness, in the nourishing food and the careful nursing, than in all the drugs of the world.  He did not know that, in order to reach the convalescence for which he so ardently longed, his patient must go down to the very basis of his life, and begin and build up anew; that in changing from an old and worn-out existence to a fresh and healthy one, there must come a point between the two conditions where there would seem to be no life, and where death would appear to be the only natural determination.  He was burdened with his responsibility; and only the consciousness that his motives were pure and his patient no more hopeless in his hands than in those from which he had rescued him, strengthened his equanimity and sustained his courage.

As the sun rose, Benedict fell into an uneasy slumber, and, while Jim watched his heavy breathing, the door was noiselessly opened, and Harry and the dog looked in.  The hungry look of the lad summoned Jim to new duties, and leaving Harry to watch his father, he went off to prepare a breakfast for his family.

All that day and all the following night Jim’s time was so occupied in feeding the well and administering to the sick, that his own sleeplessness began to tell upon him.  He who had been accustomed to the sleep of a healthy and active man began to look haggard, and to long for the assistance of a trusty hand.  It was with a great, irrepressible shout of gratification that, at the close of the second day, he detected the form of Mike Conlin walking up the path by the side of the river, with a snug pack of provisions upon his back.

Jim pushed his boat from the shore, and ferried Mike over to his cabin.  The Irishman had reached the landing ten miles below to learn that the birch canoe in which he had expected to ascend the river had either been stolen or washed away.  He was, therefore, obliged to take the old “tote-road” worn in former years by the lumbermen, at the side of the river, and to reach Jim’s camp on foot.  He was very tired, but the warmth of his welcome brought a merry twinkle to his eyes and the ready blarney to his tongue.

“Och! divil a bit wud ye be glad to see Mike Conlin if ye knowed he’d come to arrist ye.  Jim, ye’re me prisoner.  Ye’ve been stalin a pauper—­a pair iv ’em, faith—­an’ ye must answer fur it wid yer life to owld Belcher.  Come along wid me.  None o’ yer nonsinse, or I’ll put a windy in ye.”

Jim eyed him with a smile, but he knew that no ordinary errand had brought Mike to him so quickly.

“Old Belcher sent ye, did he?” said Jim.

“Be gorry he did, an’ I’ve come to git a reward.  Now, if ye’ll be dacint, ye shall have part of it.”