“They will soon pass off,” said the doctor.  “It was a severe shock, but youth and a good constitution are great odds.”

But it was not so with Armstrong.  The combined effects of loss of blood and of the medicines he had taken, were unable to calm the excitement of the nerves, much less produce drowsiness.  All night he lay with eyes wide open, burning with fever, and calling for drink.  But, although his body suffered, the exaltation of his mind continued to triumph over pain, and, from the words that escaped him, from time to time, it would seem as if he felt himself absolutely happy.

When Doctor Elmer came in the morning, and heard the report of Holden, he expressed no surprise.

“It is as I supposed,” he said.  “He must have a run of fever, and what the result may be, no mortal man can divine.  Let us hope for the best, while prepared for the worst.”

Faith, from the moment she was permitted, was assiduous by the bed-side of her father.  The delusion with respect to Holden, which had taken possession of him, whom, while continuing to recognize as his brother, George, he would not believe was alive, fancying it was his spirit, extended itself after a time to his daughter, whom also he believed to be dead.  So far as could be gathered from the disjointed utterances that escaped him, he supposed that his own spirit was trying to escape from the body, and that the spirits of his brother and daughter had been sent to comfort and assist him.

Thus tossing and tumbling on a heated bed, which the delicious breath of June, streaming through the open windows, could not cool for him, passed nine long wretched days, during which the confinement of both Holden and Faith was almost incessant, for whenever either moved from the bed or made a motion as if to leave the room, Armstrong would intreat them, in the most touching tones and pathetic language, which neither the brother’s nor daughter’s heart could withstand, not to leave him, for he was just then ready, only one more struggle was necessary, and he should be free.  And besides carrying into his insanity a habit, of which we have spoken, he would insist on holding their hands.  The touch of their heavenly bodies, he said, sent a sensation of roses and lilies through his earthly body; they refined him and attracted him upward, and he was sure he had sometimes risen a little way into the air.  “O!” he would exclaim, “I never knew before, how much flowers resemble spirits.  They smile and laugh alike, and their voices are very similar.”

On the tenth day the fever abated, and Armstrong gradually fell into a long, deep sleep.  So long, so profound was the slumber that the attendants about his bed feared that it might be one from which there was no awaking.  But the orders of the doctor, who, at the crisis was present the whole time, were peremptory that the patient should not be disturbed, but Nature allowed, in her own way, to work out her beneficent purposes.  Armstrong then slept many, many hours, in that still and darkened room, while attentive ears were listening to the deeper drawn breath, and anxious eyes watching the slightest change of countenance.