When we were alone Miss Trelawny came over to me, and taking both my hands in hers, said: 

“I hope you won’t remember what I said.  I did not mean it, and I was distraught.”  I did not make reply; but I held her hands and kissed them.  There are different ways of kissing a lady’s hands.  This way was intended as homage and respect; and it was accepted as such in the high-bred, dignified way which marked Miss Trelawny’s bearing and every movement.  I went over to the sofa and looked down at the senseless man.  The dawn had come much nearer in the last few minutes, and there was something of the clearness of day in the light.  As I looked at the stern, cold, set face, now as white as a marble monument in the pale grey light, I could not but feel that there was some deep mystery beyond all that had happened within the last twenty-six hours.  Those beetling brows screened some massive purpose; that high, broad forehead held some finished train of reasoning, which the broad chin and massive jaw would help to carry into effect.  As I looked and wondered, there began to steal over me again that phase of wandering thought which had last night heralded the approach of sleep.  I resisted it, and held myself sternly to the present.  This was easier to do when Miss Trelawny came close to me, and, leaning her forehead against my shoulder, began to cry silently.  Then all the manhood in me woke, and to present purpose.  It was of little use trying to speak; words were inadequate to thought.  But we understood each other; she did not draw away when I put arm protectingly over her shoulder as I used to do with my little sister long ago when in her childish trouble she would come to her big brother to be comforted.  That very act or attitude of protection made me more resolute in my purpose, and seemed to clear my brain of idle, dreamy wandering in thought.  With an instinct of greater protection, however, I took away my arm as I heard the Doctor’s footstep outside the door.

When Doctor Winchester came in he looked intently at the patient before speaking.  His brows were set, and his mouth was a thin, hard line.  Presently he said: 

“There is much in common between the sleep of your Father and Nurse Kennedy.  Whatever influence has brought it about has probably worked the same way in both cases.  In Kennedy’s case the coma is less marked.  I cannot but feel, however, that with her we may be able to do more and more quickly than with this patient, as our hands are not tied.  I have placed her in a draught; and already she shows some signs, though very faint ones, of ordinary unconsciousness.  The rigidity of her limbs is less, and her skin seems more sensitive—­or perhaps I should say less insensitive—­to pain.”

“How is it, then,” I asked, “that Mr. Trelawny is still in this state of insensibility; and yet, so far as we know, his body has not had such rigidity at all?”

“That I cannot answer.  The problem is one which we may solve in a few hours; or it may need a few days.  But it will be a useful lesson in diagnosis to us all; and perhaps to many and many others after us, who knows!” he added, with the genuine fire of an enthusiast.