When the lad reappeared and approached him, Jim said to himself:  “Now, if that won’t do it, ther’ won’t nothin’.”  Reaching out his arms to Harry, as he came up, he embraced him, and said: 

“My boy, ye’ve did the right thing.  It’s better nor all the nussin’, an’ ye must do that every mornin’—­every mornin’; an’ don’t ye take no for an answer.  Now jest go in with me an’ see your pa.”

Jim would not have been greatly surprised to see the rude little room thronged with angels, but he was astonished, almost to fainting, to see Benedict open his eyes, look about him, then turn his questioning gaze upon him, and recognize him by a faint smile, so like the look of other days—­so full of intelligence and peace, that the woodsman dropped upon his knees and hid his face in the blankets.  He did not say a word, but leaving the boy passionately kissing his father, he ran to his own cabin.

Seizing Mike by the shoulders, he shook him as if he intended to kill him.

“Mike,” said he, “by the great horned spoons, the little fellow has fetched ‘im!  Git yer pa’tridge-broth and yer brandy quicker’n’ lightnin’.  Don’t talk to me no more ’bout yer priest; I’ve got a trick worth two o’ that.”

Both men made haste back to Number Ten, where they found their patient quite able to take the nourishment and stimulant they brought, but still unable to speak.  He soon sank into a refreshing slumber, and gave signs of mending throughout the day.  The men who had watched him with such careful anxiety were full of hope, and gave vent to their lightened spirits in the chaffing which, in their careless hours, had become habitual with them.  The boy and the dog rejoiced too in sympathy; and if there had been ten days of storm and gloom, ended by a brilliant outshining sun, the aspect of the camp could not have been more suddenly or happily changed.

Two days and nights passed away, and then Mike declared that he must go home.  The patient had spoken, and knew where he was.  He only remembered the past as a dream.  First, it was dark and long, and full of horror, but at length all had become bright; and Jim was made supremely happy to learn that he had had a vision of the glory toward which he had pretended to conduct him.  Of the fatherly breast he had slept upon, of the golden streets through which he had walked, of the river of the water of life, of the shining ones with whom he had strolled in companionship, of the marvelous city which hath foundations, and the ineffable beauty of its Maker and Builder, he could not speak in full, until years had passed away; but out of this lovely dream he had emerged into natural life.

“He’s jest been down to the bottom, and started new.”  That was the sum and substance of Jim’s philosophy, and it would be hard for science to supplant it.

“Well,” said Jim to Mike, “ye’ve be’n a godsend.  Ye’ve did more good in a week nor ye’ll do agin if ye live a thousand year.  Ye’ve arned yer hundred dollars, and ye haven’t found no pauper, and ye can tell ’em so.  Paul Benedict ain’t no pauper, an’ he ain’t no crazy man either.”