“O doctor, can I trust her in your hands?  But I am foolish; I know that there is no one in this city of more acknowledged skill than yourself.  You must pardon a father’s fears.  Spare no attentions, doctor—­visit her at least twice every day, and you shall be well paid for your attentions.  Save my child for me, and I will owe you eternal gratitude.”

“All that I can do for her, shall be done, sir,” said Dr. Elton.

Just relieved from the care of a dangerous case, in its healthy change, Dr. Elton’s mind had relaxed from the anxiety which too frequently burdened it; for a physician’s mind is always oppressed while the issue, of life or death hangs upon his power to subdue a disease, which may be too deeply seated to yield to the influence of medicine.  Now, all the oppressive sense of responsibility, the care, the anxiety, were to be renewed, and felt with even a keener concern.

In the evening he called in, but there was no perceptible change, except a slight aggravation of all the symptoms.  The medicine had produced no visible salutary effect.  During the second day, there was exhibited little alteration, but on the morning of the third day, symptoms of a more decided character had supervened—­such as suffused and injected eyes, painful deglutition, an oppression in the chest, accompanied with a short, dry cough, pains in the back, loins, and extremities; and a soreness throughout the whole body.  These had not escaped the father’s observation, and with the most painful anxiety did he watch the countenance of the physician while he examined the case in its new presentation.  Much as he tried to control the expression of his face, he found it impossible.  He felt too deeply concerned, and was too conscious of the frequent impotence of medicine, when administered with the most experienced skill.

In the afternoon he called again, and found the father, as usual, by the bedside.  His patient seemed to be in a narcotic sleep, and when roused from it, complained of much giddiness, and soon sunk down again into a state of torpor.

“What do you think of her now, doctor?” asked the father, in a hoarse whisper, on the physician’s leaving the chamber of his patient.

“It is impossible to form any correct idea respecting a case like this.  I have seen many much worse recover, and have no doubt, as far as human calculation will go, that your daughter will get well.  But the fever is a tedious one, usually defying all attempts at breaking it.  It must run its course, which is usually some ten or fifteen days.  All we can do is to palliate, and then assist nature, when the disease has abated its violence.”

It is not necessary to trace the progress of the disease from day to day, until it reached its climax.  When the fever did break, and a soft, gentle moisture penetrated the skin, the patient had but a spark of life remaining.

At the close of the fifteenth day, when every symptom indicated that convalescence or death would soon ensue, no one but a physician can imagine the painful, restless anxiety, which was felt by Dr. Elton.  He took but little food, and slept hardly any during the whole night, frequently starting from his brief periods of troubled slumber, in consequence of great nervous excitement.