We cannot think that this young man is doomed to perpetual separation from the society of womanhood during the period of its bloom and attraction.  But to provoke another seizure after his past experiences would be too much like committing suicide.  We fear that we must trust to the chapter of accidents.  The strange malady—­for such it is—­has become a second nature, and may require as energetic a shock to displace it as it did to bring it into existence.  Time alone can solve this question, on which depends the well-being and, it may be, the existence of a young man every way fitted to be happy, and to give happiness, if restored to his true nature.”

XX.

Dr. Butts reflects.

Dr. Butts sat up late at night reading these papers and reflecting upon them.  He was profoundly impressed and tenderly affected by the entire frankness, the absence of all attempt at concealment, which Maurice showed in placing these papers at his disposal.  He believed that his patient would recover from this illness for which he had been taking care of him.  He thought deeply and earnestly of what he could do for him after he should have regained his health and strength.

There were references, in Maurice’s own account of himself, which the doctor called to mind with great interest after reading his brief autobiography.  Some one person—­some young woman, it must be—­had produced a singular impression upon him since those earlier perilous experiences through which he had passed.  The doctor could not help thinking of that meeting with Euthymia of which she had spoken to him.  Maurice, as she said, turned pale,—­he clapped his hand to his breast.  He might have done so if he had met her chambermaid, or any straggling damsel of the village.  But Euthymia was not a young woman to be looked upon with indifference.  She held herself like a queen, and walked like one, not a stage queen, but one born and bred to self-reliance, and command of herself as well as others.  One could not pass her without being struck with her noble bearing and spirited features.  If she had known how Maurice trembled as he looked upon her, in that conflict of attraction and uncontrollable dread,—­if she had known it!  But what, even then, could she have done?  Nothing but get away from him as fast as she could.  As it was, it was a long time before his agitation subsided, and his heart beat with its common force and frequency.

Dr. Butts was not a male gossip nor a matchmaking go-between.  But he could not help thinking what a pity it was that these two young persons could not come together as other young people do in the pairing season, and find out whether they cared for and were fitted for each other.  He did not pretend to settle this question in his own mind, but the thought was a natural one.  And here was a gulf between them as deep and wide as that between Lazarus and