“Suppose, sir, you are mistaken.” replied the other—­“Do you not know that there are memories arising from association, that are touched and kindled into great pain, by objects that are by no means the direct cause of them, or the cause of them in any sense?”

“I admit the truth of what you say, Mr. Fenton; but we can only draw our first inferences from appearances.  It is not from any idle or prurient desire to become acquainted with the cause of your emotion that I speak, but simply from a wish to serve you, if you will permit me.  It is distressing to witness what you suffer.”

“I have experienced,” said Fenton, whose excitement seemed not only to rise as he proceeded, but in a considerable degree to give that fervor and elevation to his language, which excitement often gives; “yes, sir,” he proceeded, his eyes kindling almost into fury, “I have experienced much treacherous and malignant sympathy, under the guise of pretended friendship—­sympathy! why do I say sympathy?  Persecution—­vengeance.  Yes, sir, till I have become mad—­or—­or nearly so.  No,” he added, “I am not mad—­I never was mad—­but I understand your object—­avaunt, sir—­begone—­or I shall throw you out of the window.”

“Be calm, Mr. Fenton—­be calm,” replied the stranger, “and collect yourself.  I am, indeed, sincerely your friend.”

“Who told you, sir, that I was mad?”

“I never said so, Mr. Fenton.”

“It matters not, sir—­you are a traitor—­and as such I denounce you.  This room is mine, sir, and I shall forthwith expel you from it—­” and, as he spoke, he started up, and sprung at the stranger, who, on seeing him rise for the purpose, instantly rang the bell.  The waiter immediately entered, and found the latter holding poor Fenton by the two wrists, and with such a tremendous grasp as made him feel like an infant, in point of strength, in his hands.

“This is unmeaning violence, sir,” exclaimed the latter, calmly but firmly, “unless you explain yourself, and give a reason for it.  If you are moved by any peculiar cause of horror, or apprehension, or danger, why not enable me to understand it, in order that you may feel assured of my anxious disposition to assist you?”

“Gintlemen,” exclaimed Paudeen, “what in the name of Pether White and Billy Neelins is the reason of this?  But I needn’t ax—­it’s one of Mr. Fenton’s tantrams—­an’ the occasion of it was, lying snug and warm this mornin’, in one of Andy Trimble’s whiskey barrels.  For shame, Mr. Fenton, you they say a gintleman born, and to thrate one of your own rank—­a gintleman that befriended you as he did, and put a daicint shoot of clo’es on your miserable carcase; when you know that before he did it, if the wind was blowing from the thirty-two points of the compass, you had an openin’ for every point, if they wor double the number.  Troth, now, you’re ongrateful, an’ if God hasn’t said it, you’ll thravel from an onpenitent death-bed yet.  Be quiet, will you, or my sinful sowl to glory, but I’ll bundle you downstairs?”