returning, though as yet indistinct. She yearns
to see you, to bless you for all your noble
devotion, your generous, great-hearted love; but I
forbid such interview now. If, in a few hours,
she become either decidedly stronger or decidedly
more enfeebled, you shall be summoned
to her side. Even if you are condemned to a
loss for which the sole consolation must be
placed in the life hereafter, you shall have, at
least, the last mortal commune of soul with
soul. Courage—courage! You are man! Bear
as man what you have so often bid other men
submit to endure."

I had flung myself on the ground—writhing
worm that had no home but on earth! Man,
indeed! Man! All, at that moment, I took
from manhood was its acute sensibility to love
and to anguish!

But after all such paroxysms of mortal pain,
there comes a strange lull. Thought itself halts,
like the still hush of water between two
descending torrents. I rose in a calm, which
Faber might well mistake for fortitude.

"Well," I said, quietly, "fulfil your promise.
If Lilian is to pass away from me, I shall see
her, at least, again; no wall, you tell me,
between our minds: mind to mind once more—
once more!"

"Allen," said Faber, mournfully and softly,
"why do you shun to repeat my words—soul to
soul?"

"Ay, ay—I understand. Those words mean
that you have resigned all hope that Lilian's
life will linger here, when her mind comes back
in full consciousness; I know well that last
lightning flash and the darkness which swallows
it up!"

"You exaggerate my fears. I have not
resigned the hope that Lilian will survive the
struggle through which she is passing, but it
would be cruel to deceive you—my hope is
weaker than it was."

"Ay, ay. Again, I understand! Your science
is in fault—it desponds. Its last trust is in the
wonderful resources of Nature—the vitality
stored in the young?"

"You have said: Those resources of Nature
are wondrous. The vitality of youth is a fountain
springing up from the deeps out of sight,
when, a moment before, we had measured the
drops oozing out from the sands, and thought
that the well was exhausted."

"Come with me—come. I told you of another
sufferer yonder. I want your opinion of
his case. But can you be spared a few minutes
from Lilian's side?"

"Yes; I left her asleep. What is the case
that perplexes your eye of physician, which is
usually keener than mine, despite all the length
of my practice?"

"The sufferer is young—his organisation
rare in its vigour. He has gone through and
survived assaults upon life that are commonly
fatal. His system has been poisoned by the fangs
of a venomous asp, and shattered by the blast of
the plague. These alone, I believe, would not
suffice to destroy him. But he is one who has
a strong dread of death. And while the heart
was thus languid and feeble, it has been gnawed
by emotions of hope or of fear. I suspect
that he is dying, not from the bite of the reptile,
not from the taint of the pestilence, but from
the hope and the fear that have overtasked the
heart's functions. Judge for yourself."

We were now at the door of the hut. I
unlocked it: we entered. Margrave had quitted
his bed, and was pacing the room slowly. His
step was less feeble; his countenance less
haggard than on the previous evening.

He submitted himself to Faber's questioning
with a quiet indifference, and evidently cared
nothing for any opinion which the great
physician might found on his replies.

When Faber had learned all he could, he said,
with a grave smile, "I see that my advice will
have little weight with you; such as it is, at
least reflect on it. The conclusions to which your
host arrived in his view of your case, and which
he confided to me, are, in my humble judgment,
correct. I have no doubt that the great
organ of the heart is involved in the cause of
your sufferings; but the heart is a noble and
much-enduring organ. I have known men, in
whom it has been more severely and
unequivocally affected with disease than it is in
you, live on for many years, and ultimately die of
some other disorder. But then life was held,
as yours must be held, upon one condition—
repose. I enjoin you to abstain from all violent
action; to shun all excitements that cause
moral disturbance. You are young: would you
live on, you must live as the old. More than
this—it is my duty to warn you that your
tenure on earth is very precarious; you may attain
to many years; you may be suddenly called
hence to-morrow. The best mode to regard this
uncertainty, with the calm in which is your only
chance of long life, is so to arrange all your
worldly affairs, and so to discipline all your human
anxieties, as to feel always prepared for the
summons that may come without warning. For
the rest, quit this climate as soon as you can—
it is the climate in which the blood courses too
quickly for one who should shun all excitement.
Seek the most equable atmosphere—choose the
most tranquil pursuits—and Fenwick, himself,
in his magnificent pride of stature and strength,
may be nearer the grave than you are."

"Your opinion coincides with that I have
just heard?" asked Margrave, turning to me.

"In much—yes."

"It is more favourable than I should have
supposed. I am far from disdaining the advice
so kindly offered. Permit me, in turn, two or
three questions, Dr. Faber. Do you prescribe
to me no drugs from your pharmacopœia?"

"Drugs may palliate many sufferings incidental
to organic disease; but drugs cannot reach
organic disease itself!"

"Do you believe that, even where disease is
plainly organic, Nature herself has no alterative
and reparative powers by which the organ
assailed may recover itself?"

"A few exceptional instances of such forces