And this time he pronounced most positively that Sturk was still living.

‘Yes, my dear Madam, so sure as you and I are.  There’s no mistaking.’

And as the warmth of the bed began to tell, the signs of life showed themselves more and more unequivocally.  But Toole knew that his patient was in a state of coma, from which he had no hope of his emerging.

So poor little Mrs. Sturk—­as white as the plaster on the wall—­who kept her imploring eyes fixed on the doctor’s ruddy countenance, during his moments of deliberation, burst out into a flood of tears, and thanksgivings, and benedictions.

’He’ll recover—­something tells me he’ll recover.  Oh! my Barney—­darling—­you will—­you will.’

‘While there’s life—­you know—­my dear Ma’am,’, said Toole, doing his best.  ’But then—­you see—­he’s been very badly abused about the head; and the brain you know—­is the great centre—­the—­the—­but, as I said, while there’s life, there’s hope.’

’And he’s so strong—­he shakes off an illness so easily; he has such courage.’

‘So much the better, Ma’am.’

’And I can’t but think, as he did not die outright, and has shown such wonderful endurance.  Oh! my darling, he’ll get on.’

‘Well, well, Ma’am, there certainly have been wonderful recoveries.’

’And he’s so much better already, you see, and I know so well how he gets through an illness, ’tis wonderful, and he certainly is mightily improved since we got him to bed.  Why, I can see him breathe now, and you know it must be a good sign; and then there’s a merciful God over us—­and all the poor little children—­what would become of us?’ And then she wiped her eyes quickly.  ’The promise, you know, of length of days—­it often comforted me before—­to those that honour father and mother; and I believe there never was so good a son.  Oh! my noble Barney, never; ’tis my want of reliance and trust in the Almighty’s goodness.’

And so, holding Toole by the cuff of his coat, and looking piteously into his face as they stood together in the doorway, the poor little woman argued thus with inexorable death.

Fools, and blind; when amidst our agonies of supplication the blow descends, our faith in prayer is staggered, as if it reached not the ear of the Allwise, and moved not His sublime compassion.  Are we quite sure that we comprehend the awful and far-sighted game that is being played for us and others so well that we can sit by and safely dictate its moves?

How will Messrs. Morphy or Staunton, on whose calculations, I will suppose, you have staked L100, brook your insane solicitations to spare this pawn or withdraw that knight from prise, on the board which is but the toy type of that dread field where all the powers of eternal intellect, the wisdom from above and the wisdom from beneath—­the stupendous intelligence that made, and the stupendous sagacity that would undo us, are pitted one against the other in a death-combat, which admits of no reconciliation and no compromise?