more the matter with his mind than his body, and that he must have had some great fright which has shaken his nerves all to pieces.  The only way to do him good, as the doctor said, was to have him carefully nursed by his relations, and kept quiet among people he knew; strange faces about him being likely to make him worse.  The doctor asked where his friends lived; but he wouldn’t say, and, lately, he’s got so much worse that he can’t speak clearly to us at all.

Yesterday evening, he gave us all a fright.  The doctor hearing me below, asking after him, said I was to come up stairs and help to move him to have his bed made.  As soon as I raised him up (though I’m sure I touched him as gently as I could), he fainted dead away.  While he was being brought to, a little piece of something that looked like card-board, prettily embroidered with beads and silk, came away from a string that held it round his neck, and dropped off the bedside.  I picked it up; for I remembered the time, Mary, when you and I were courting, and how precious the least thing was to me that belonged to you.  So I took care of it for him, thinking it might be a keepsake from his sweetheart.  And sure enough, when he came to, he put up his thin white hands to his neck, and looked so thankful at me when I tied the little thing again to the string!  Just as I had done that, the doctor beckons me to the other end of the room.

“This won’t do,” says he to me in a whisper.  “If he goes on like this, he’ll lose his reason, if not his life.  I must search his papers, to find out what friends he has; and you must be my witness.”

So the doctor opens his little bag, and takes out a square sealed packet first; then two or three letters tied together; the poor soul looking all the while as if he longed to prevent us from touching them.  Well, the doctor said there was no occasion to open the packet, for the direction was the same on all the letters, and the name corresponded with his initials marked on his linen.

“I’m next to certain this is where he lives, or did live; so this is where I’ll write,” says the doctor.

“Shall my wife take the letter, Sir?” says I.  “She’s in London with our girl, Susan; and, if his friends should be gone away from where you are writing to, she may be able to trace them.”

“Quite right, Penhale!” says he; “we’ll do that.  Write to your wife, and put my letter inside yours.”

I did as he told me, at once; and his letter is inside this, with the direction of the house and the street.

Now, Mary, dear, go at once, and see what you can find out.  The direction on the doctor’s letter may be his home; and if it isn’t, there may be people there who can tell you where it is.  So go at once, and let us know directly what luck you have had, for there is no time to be lost; and if you saw the young gentleman, you would pity him as much as we do.

This has got to be such a long letter, that I have no room left to write any more.  God bless you, Mary, and God bless my darling Susan!  Give her a kiss for father’s sake, and believe me, Your loving husband,