prefer telling you that, in this case, cause
and effect could not be satisfactorily joined
together by any theory whatever. There are
mysteries in life, and the conditions of it,
which human science has not fathomed yet;
and I candidly confess to you, that, in
bringing that man back to existence, I was,
morally speaking, groping hap-hazard in the
dark. I know (from the testimony of the
doctor who attended him in the afternoon)
that the vital machinery, so far as its action
is appreciable by our senses, had, in this
case, unquestionably stopped; and I am
equally certain (seeing that I recovered him)
that the vital principle was not extinct.
When I add, that he had suffered from a long
and complicated illness, and that his whole
nervous system was utterly deranged, I have
told you all I really know of the physical
condition of my dead-alive patient at the
Two Robins Inn.

When he "came to," as the phrase goes,
he was a startling object to look at, with his
colourless face, his sunken cheeks, his wild
black eyes, and his long black hair. The
first question he asked me about himself,
when he could speak, made me suspect that
I had been called in to a man in my own
profession. I mentioned to him my surmise;
and he told me that I was right.

He said he had come last from Paris,
where he had been attached to a hospital.
That he had lately returned to England,
on his way to Edinburgh, to continue his studies;
that he had been taken ill on the journey;
and that he had stopped to rest and recover
himself at Doncaster. He did not add a
word about his name, or who he was: and,
of course, I did not question him on the subject.
All I inquired, when he ceased speaking,
was what branch of the profession he intended
to follow.

"Any branch," he said bitterly, "which
will put bread into the mouth of a poor
man."

At this, Arthur, who had been hitherto
watching him in silent curiosity, burst out
impetuously in his usual good-humoured
way:

"My dear fellow!" (everybody was "my
dear fellow" with Arthur) "now you have
come to life again, don't begin by being down-
hearted about your prospects. I'll answer
for it, I can help you to some capital thing in
the medical line or, if I can't, I know my
father can."

The medical student looked at him steadily.

"Thank you," he said coldly. Then added,
"May I ask who your father is?"

"He's well enough known all about this
part of the country," replied Arthur. "He
is a great manufacturer, and his name is
Holliday."

My hand was on the man's wrist during
this brief conversation. The instant the
name of Holliday was pronounced I felt the
pulse under my fingers flutter, stop, go
on suddenly with a bound, and beat afterwards,
for a minute or two, at the fever
rate.

"How did you come here?" asked the
stranger, quickly, excitably, passionately
almost.

Arthur related briefly what had happened
from the time of his first taking the bed at
the inn.

"I am indebted to Mr. Holliday's son
then for the help that has saved my life," said
the medical student, speaking to himself,
with a singular sarcasm in his voice. "Come
here!"

He held out, as he spoke, his long, white,
bony right hand.

"With all my heart," said Arthur, taking
the hand cordially. "I may confess it
now," he continued, laughing, "Upon my
honour, you almost frightened me out of my
wits."

The stranger did not seem to listen. His
wild black eyes were fixed with a look of
eager interest on Arthur's face, and his long
bony fingers kept tight hold of Arthur's
hand. Young Holliday, on his side, returned
the gaze, amazed and puzzled by
the medical student's odd language and
manners. The two faces were close together; I
looked at them; and, to my amazement, I
was suddenly impressed by the sense of a
likeness between them—not in features, or
complexion, but solely in expression. It
must have been a strong likeness, or I
should certainly not have found it out, for
I am naturally slow at detecting
resemblances between faces.

"You have saved my life," said the strange
man, still looking hard in Arthur's face, still
holding tightly by his hand.  "If you had
been my own brother, you could not have
done more for me than that."

He laid a singularly strong emphasis on
those three words "my own brother," and a
change passed over his face as he pronounced
them—a change that no language of mine is
competent to describe.

"I hope I have not done being of service
to you yet," said Arthur. "I'll speak to my
father, as soon as I get home."

"You seem to be fond and proud of your
father," said the medical student. "I suppose,
in return, he is fond and proud of
you?"

"Of course, he is!" answered Arthur,
laughing. "Is there anything wonderful in
that? Isn't your father fond—"

The stranger suddenly dropped young
Holliday's hand, and turned his face away.

"I beg your pardon," said Arthur. "I
hope I have not unintentionally pained you.
I hope you have not lost your father?"

"I can't well lose what I have never had,"
retorted the medical student, with a harsh
mocking laugh.

"What you have never had!"

The strange man suddenly caught Arthur's