Before long, some of the objections to taking him into our employment, which I had foreseen and had vainly mentioned to my wife, forced themselves on our attention in no very agreeable form.  Francis Raven failed (as I had feared he would) to get on smoothly with his fellow-servants They were all French; and not one of them understood English.  Francis, on his side, was equally ignorant of French.  His reserved manners, his melancholy temperament, his solitary ways—­all told against him.  Our servants called him “the English Bear.”  He grew widely known in the neighborhood under his nickname.  Quarrels took place, ending once or twice in blows.  It became plain, even to Mrs. Fairbank herself, that some wise change must be made.  While we were still considering what the change was to be, the unfortunate hostler was thrown on our hands for some time to come by an accident in the stables.  Still pursued by his proverbial ill-luck, the poor wretch’s leg was broken by a kick from a horse.

He was attended to by our own surgeon, in his comfortable bedroom at the stables.  As the date of his birthday drew near, he was still confined to his bed.

Physically speaking, he was doing very well.  Morally speaking, the surgeon was not satisfied.  Francis Raven was suffering under some mysterious mental disturbance, which interfered seriously with his rest at night.  Hearing this, I thought it my duty to tell the medical attendant what was preying on the patient’s mind.  As a practical man, he shared my opinion that the hostler was in a state of delusion on the subject of his Wife and his Dream.  “Curable delusion, in my opinion,” the surgeon added, “if the experiment could be fairly tried.”

“How can it be tried?” I asked.  Instead of replying, the surgeon put a question to me, on his side.

“Do you happen to know,” he said, “that this year is Leap Year?”

“Mrs. Fairbank reminded me of it yesterday,” I answered.  “Otherwise I might not have known it.”

“Do you think Francis Raven knows that this year is Leap Year?”

(I began to see dimly what my friend was driving at.)

“It depends,” I answered, “on whether he has got an English almanac.  Suppose he has not got the almanac—­what then?”

“In that case,” pursued the surgeon, “Francis Raven is innocent of all suspicion that there is a twenty-ninth day in February this year.  As a necessary consequence—­what will he do?  He will anticipate the appearance of the Woman with the Knife, at two in the morning of the twenty-ninth of February, instead of the first of March.  Let him suffer all his superstitious terrors on the wrong day.  Leave him, on the day that is really his birthday, to pass a perfectly quiet night, and to be as sound asleep as other people at two in the morning.  And then, when he wakes comfortably in time for his breakfast, shame him out of his delusion by telling him the truth.”