In this wretched plight, with a furnace in my heart and another in my head, by the heat of which I was kept constantly at the boiling point, yet shivering at the bare idea of extruding so much as a finger into the icy atmosphere of the room, I kept my bed until breakfast-time, when Hollingsworth knocked at the door, and entered.

“Well, Coverdale,” cried he, “you bid fair to make an admirable farmer!  Don’t you mean to get up to-day?”

“Neither to-day nor to-morrow,” said I hopelessly.  “I doubt if I ever rise again!”

“What is the matter now?” he asked.

I told him my piteous case, and besought him to send me back to town in a close carriage.

“No, no!” said Hollingsworth with kindly seriousness.  “If you are really sick, we must take care of you.”

Accordingly he built a fire in my chamber, and, having little else to do while the snow lay on the ground, established himself as my nurse.  A doctor was sent for, who, being homaeopathic, gave me as much medicine, in the course of a fortnight’s attendance, as would have laid on the point of a needle.  They fed me on water-gruel, and I speedily became a skeleton above ground.  But, after all, I have many precious recollections connected with that fit of sickness.

Hollingsworth’s more than brotherly attendance gave me inexpressible comfort.  Most men—­and certainly I could not always claim to be one of the exceptions—­have a natural indifference, if not an absolutely hostile feeling, towards those whom disease, or weakness, or calamity of any kind causes to falter and faint amid the rude jostle of our selfish existence.  The education of Christianity, it is true, the sympathy of a like

experience and the example of women, may soften and, possibly, subvert this ugly characteristic of our sex; but it is originally there, and has likewise its analogy in the practice of our brute brethren, who hunt the sick or disabled member of the herd from among them, as an enemy.  It is for this reason that the stricken deer goes apart, and the sick lion grimly withdraws himself into his den.  Except in love, or the attachments of kindred, or other very long and habitual affection, we really have no tenderness.  But there was something of the woman moulded into the great, stalwart frame of Hollingsworth; nor was he ashamed of it, as men often are of what is best in them, nor seemed ever to know that there was such a soft place in his heart.  I knew it well, however, at that time, although afterwards it came nigh to be forgotten.  Methought there could not be two such men alive as Hollingsworth.  There never was any blaze of a fireside that warmed and cheered me, in the down-sinkings and shiverings of my spirit, so effectually as did the light out of those eyes, which lay so deep and dark under his shaggy brows.