lowest.  It is then that Death gathers in his human harvest most abundantly.  It was then that Death and I fought our fight over the bed, which should have the man who lay on it.  I never hesitated in pursuing the treatment on which I had staked everything.  When wine failed, I tried brandy.  When the other stimulants lost their influence, I doubled the dose.  After an interval of suspense—­the like of which I hope to God I shall never feel again—­there came a day when the rapidity of the pulse slightly, but appreciably, diminished; and, better still, there came also a change in the beat—­an unmistakable change to steadiness and strength.  Then, I knew that I had saved him; and then I own I broke down.  I laid the poor fellow’s wasted hand back on the bed, and burst out crying.  An hysterical relief, Mr. Blake—­nothing more!  Physiology says, and says truly, that some men are born with female constitutions—­and I am one of them!”

He made that bitterly professional apology for his tears, speaking quietly and unaffectedly, as he had spoken throughout.  His tone and manner, from beginning to end, showed him to be especially, almost morbidly, anxious not to set himself up as an object of interest to me.

“You may well ask, why I have wearied you with all these details?” he went on.  “It is the only way I can see, Mr. Blake, of properly introducing to you what I have to say next.  Now you know exactly what my position was, at the time of Mr. Candy’s illness, you will the more readily understand the sore need I had of lightening the burden on my mind by giving it, at intervals, some sort of relief.  I have had the presumption to occupy my leisure, for some years past, in writing a book, addressed to the members of my profession—­a book on the intricate and delicate subject of the brain and the nervous system.  My work will probably never be finished; and it will certainly never be published.  It has none the less been the friend of many lonely hours; and it helped me to while away the anxious time—­the time of waiting, and nothing else—­at Mr. Candy’s bedside.  I told you he was delirious, I think?  And I mentioned the time at which his delirium came on?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I had reached a section of my book, at that time, which touched on this same question of delirium.  I won’t trouble you at any length with my theory on the subject—­I will confine myself to telling you only what it is your present interest to know.  It has often occurred to me in the course of my medical practice, to doubt whether we can justifiably infer—­in cases of delirium—­that the loss of the faculty of speaking connectedly, implies of necessity the loss of the faculty of thinking connectedly as well.  Poor Mr. Candy’s illness gave me an opportunity of putting this doubt to the test.  I understand the art of writing in shorthand; and I was able to take down the patient’s ‘wanderings’, exactly as they fell from his lips.—­Do you see, Mr. Blake, what I am coming to at last?”