Far, far into the shining morn,
Lazy with misery he lies.

Come, rouse up, my merry merry man, for it is
our opening day. My sister Nell is back from
Devonshire, and we shall have a capital evening's
dance, or I'll know the reason why!"

Hewson was a dresser at St. Thomas's, an
old friend of Ellis's, a lively sterling fellow,
full of fire and energy, and a hater of all nervous
fancies and hypochondriacal depressions.

Ellis began to dress languidly. Suddenly
he sat down on. the edge of the bed as if too
weak to stand. Covering his face with his
hands, he burst into tears.

"I know you'll think me childish or half
crazed, Hewson," he said, looking up, " but I
feel that there is some evil influence in this house
that is slowly killing me. It must be some devil
that is trying to drive me to despair, and to kill
my mother through me, for I know my failure
would kill her. My memory weakens; I feel
giddy when I try to write."

Hewson sat down and tried to cheer his poor
overwrought friend. " It is mysterious what you
tell me," he said; " the symptoms are not
cerebral. I don't think you want blood in the brain;
you live well enough; you have no absurd
teetotal fancies; you walk a good deal; your lungs
are oxygenised at least twice a day when you
walk to St. Thomas's; your pulse is low, but it
is near the average. Lyons Inn is perhaps rather
close, but then you have the Strand like a
great blowpipe to bring you air from the Parks.
Your symptoms are positively like those of the
Roman malaria, but the drainage is good here.
It must be some subtle nervous excitement; you
must struggle with it. Keep saying to yourself,
' I shall pass well enough. Why, I know
three times more than is necessary.' Tread
the humbug under foot, go to bed early, and
take a walk the last thing at night. If you want
tonics, get some quinine wine; all you want is
a nervous fillip. Now then, old fellow, the
coffee's made. Come along, for

I'm Captain Jolly, of the Lively Polly,
Just come home from sea.

And we poor hard-worked doctors don't get a
holiday every day."

A fog, yellow, lurid, and chill, darkened
London on that November morning, when the
laundress came up.

"Oh, Mr. Ellis," she said, " that there Mr.
Medlicot has been playing billiards all night, and
they're at it now. Oh, if ever a man was a going
to the dogs it's him; don't you make no
mistake, he is a going to the dogs. He's been and
lost a power of money lately, I think, for he's
swearing awful."

The doors of Mr. Medlicot's chambers were
ajar when the two friends passed; they
gave a glance in. The six gas lamps were
blazing hotter and fiercer than ever. Mr.
Medlicot, a tall slim man, with a thin sunken pale
face, and black bushy whiskers, was leaning
over the green cloth, watching with malignant
and horrible anxiety a stroke about to be made
by a dark, ill-looking fellow who wore a gibus,
and whose lip was curled with mocking
superciliousness. Several spirit bottles stood on the
mantel-piece.

"That's a bad lot," said Mr. Ellis.

"That atmosphere would kill me in a week,"
said his friend, as they descended the stairs
together, and passed the porter's lodge.

Once in the train and outside London, with
the fresher air of the suburb gardens blowing
round his temples, Ellis felt better, and his
spirits rose fast. The nightmare seemed a mere
ugly dream, arising from trifling physical
derangement, and by physic to be easily cured.

The day proved a most pleasant one. Ellis
was rather smitten with Ellen Hewson; and a
long game at cards, with that young lady for
a partner, by no means lessened the impression.
He never talked more playfully, or seemed
gayer and franker. Hewson was delighted with
the cure he had effected.

In the drawing-room, before dinner, Ellis was
giving a jocose description of his illness to a
friend, a Mr. Barber, a clever young architect,
and to Miss Hewson, who seemed to take a
peculiar interest in the story, and insisted on
hearing every one of the nightmares recapitulated,
when the servant announced dinner.

"Ellis, my boy, will you take my sister
down?" were welcome words; and down went
the procession with the usual jokes at the two
ladyless men who brought up the rear.

The dinner began pleasantly enough; the
talking was brisk and incessant even before the
champagne came—which is the best of signs.
Mr. Ellis, who was dangerously agreeable, so
Miss Hewson began to think, had just raised a
glass of sherry to his lips, and was nodding to
Mr. Barber opposite, when he suddenly turned
ash-colour, and fell back; the glass dropped, and
broke on the table.

The men sprang up, the ladies screamed.
Hewson ran to his friend, and felt his pulse.

"God bless me!" he said, " he has fainted.
Sprinkle his forehead. Here, Jackson, Robert,
help me to carry him. We must get him to bed
directly. His hands are death-cold!"

It was an hour before Ellis recovered his
senses. Next day he was well enough to return
to London, but he still remained weak.

Three days later he was roused, one day about
noon, by a sharp brisk knock at the door. He
rose and opened it. It was Hewson and Barber.
They smiled and shook hands with him. Two
workmen followed them, and each man had a
basket of tools on his back.

"We have come to kill and bury that nightmare
of yours at last, Ellis," said Hewson.

"Yes," said Mr. Barber; " I think, my dear
Ellis, I have stolen a march on the doctors this
time, and have discovered the cause of your
illness. I have worked at it for two whole days
like a problem, and depend upon it, if I know
a plumb-line from a square, these good fellows
here will settle this ugly and fatal nightmare of
yours in three hours. Indeed, if I am right, I
will show you the nightmare itself in five