‘Oh! my precious Barney!’ and the poor little woman began to cry, and fell into a rhapsody of hopes, thanksgiving, anecdote and prayer.

In the meanwhile Dangerfield was feeling his pulse, with his watch in the hollow of his hand.

’And aren’t they better—­his pulse, Sir—­they were stronger this morning by a great deal than last night—­it was just at ten o’clock—­don’t you perceive, Sir?’

’H’m—­well, I hope, Ma’am, we’ll soon find all better.  Now, have you got all things ready—­you have, of course, a sheet well aired?’

’A sheet—­I did not know ‘twas wanted.’

’Hey, this will never do, my dear Madam—­he’ll be here and nothing ready; and you’ll do well to send over to the mess-room for a lump of ice.  ’Tis five minutes past nine.  If you’ll see to these things, I’ll sit here, Madam, and take the best care of the patient—­and, d’ye see, Mistress Sturk, ’twill be necessary that you take care that Toole hears nothing of Dr. Dillon’s coming.’

It struck me, when originally reading the correspondence which is digested in these pages, as hardly credible that Doctor Sturk should have continued to live for so long a space in a state of coma.  Upon this point, therefore, I took occasion to ask the most eminent surgeon of my acquaintance, who at once quieted my doubts by detailing a very remarkable case cited by Sir A. Cooper in his lectures, Vol.  I., p. 172.  It is that of a seaman, who was pressed on board one of his Majesty’s ships, early in the revolutionary war; and while on board this vessel, fell from the yard-arm, and was taken up insensible, in which state he continued living for thirteen months and some days!

So with a little more talk, Mrs. Sturk, calling one of her maids, and leaving the little girl in charge of the nursery, ran down with noiseless steps and care-worn face to the kitchen, and Mr. Dangerfield was left alone in the chamber with the spell-bound sleeper on the bed.

In about ten seconds he rose sharply from his chair and listened:  then very noiselessly he stepped to the door and listened again, and gently shut it.

Then Mr. Dangerfield moved to the window.  There was a round hole in the shutter, and through it he glanced into the street, and was satisfied.

By this time he had his white-pocket-handkerchief in his hands.  He folded it deftly across and across into a small square, and then the spectacles flashed coldly on the image of Dr. Sturk, and then on the door; and there was a pause.

‘What’s that?’ he muttered sharply, and listened for a second or two.

It was only one of the children crying in the nursery.  The sound subsided.

So with another long silent step, he stood by the capriole-legged old mahogany table, with the scallop shell containing a piece of soap and a washball, and the basin with its jug of water standing therein.  Again he listened while you might count two, and dipped the handkerchief, so folded, into the water, and quietly squeezed it; and stood white and glittering by Sturk’s bed-side.