and now terrible room, one of the great
elms that darkened the house was slowly
moving the shadow of one of its great
boughs upon this dreadful floor.

I beckoned to the servant and we went
down-stairs together. I turned, off the hall,
into an old-fashioned panelled room, and
there, standing, I heard all the servant had
to tell. It was not a great deal.

"I concluded, sir, from your words, and
looks, sir, as you left last night, that you
thought my master seriously ill. I thought
it might be that you were afraid of a fit,
or something. So I attended very close to
your directions. He sat up late, till past
three o'clock. He was not writing or reading.
He was talking a great deal to himself,
but that was nothing unusual. At
about that hour I assisted him to undress,
and left him in his slippers and dressing-
gown. I went back softly in about half an
hour. He was in his bed, quite undressed,
and a pair of candles lighted on the table
beside his bed. He was leaning on his
elbow and looking out at the other side of
the bed when I came in. I asked him if
he wanted anything, and he said no.

"I don't know whether it was what you
said to me, sir, or something a little
unusual about him, but I was uneasy,
uncommon uneasy, about him last night.

"In another half hour, or it might be a
little more, I went up again. I did not hear
him talking as before. I opened the door a
little. The candles were both out, which was
not usual. I had a bedroom candle, and I
let the light in, a little bit, looking softly
round. I saw him sitting in that chair beside
the dressing-table with his clothes on again.
He turned round and looked at me. I
thought it strange he should get up and
dress, and put out the candles to sit in the
dark, that way. But I only asked him
again if I could do anything for him. He
said, no, rather sharp, I thought. I asked if
I might light the candles, and he said, 'Do as
you like, Jones.' So I lighted them, and
I lingered a little about the room, and
he said, 'Tell me truth, Jones, why did you
come again—you did not hear any one
cursing?' 'No, sir,' I said, wondering what he
could mean.

"'No,' said he, after me, 'of course, no;'
and I said to him, 'Wouldn't it be well, sir,
you went to bed? It's just five o'clock;'
and he said nothing but, 'Very likely: good-
night, Jones.' So I went, sir, but in less
than an hour I came again. The door was
fast, and he heard me, and called as I
thought from the bed to know what I
wanted, and he desired me not to disturb
him again. I lay down and slept for a little.
It must have been between six and seven
when I went up again. The door was still
fast, and he made no answer, so I did not like
to disturb him, and thinking he was asleep,
I left him till nine. It was his custom to
ring when he wished me to come, and I had
no particular hour for calling him. I tapped
very gently, and getting no answer, I stayed
away a good while, supposing he was getting
some rest then. It was not till eleven
o'clock I grew really uncomfortable about
him—for at the latest he was never, that I
could remember, later than half-past ten. I
got no answer. I knocked and called, and
still no answer. So not being able to force
the door, I called Thomas from the stables,
and together we forced it, and found him
in the shocking way you saw."

Jones had no more to tell. Poor Mr.
Jennings was very gentle, and very kind.
All his people were fond of him. I could
see that the servant was very much
moved.

So, dejected and agitated, I passed from
that terrible house, and its dark canopy of
elms, and I hope I shall never see it more.
While I write to you I feel like a man who
has but half waked from a frightful and
monotonous dream. My memory rejects
the picture with incredulity and horror.
Yet I know it is true. It is the story of
the process of a poison, a poison which
excites the reciprocal action of spirit and
nerve, and paralyses the tissue that separates
those cognate functions of the senses,
the external and the interior. Thus we
find strange bed-fellows, and the mortal
and immortal prematurely make acquaintance.

CONCLUSION. A WORD FOR THOSE WHO SUFFER.

MY dear Van L., you have suffered from
an affection similar to that which I have
just described. You twice complained of a
return of it.

Who, under God, cured you? Your
humble servant, Martin Hesselius. Let
me rather adopt the more emphasised piety
of a certain good old French surgeon of
three hundred years ago: "I treated, and
God cured you."

Come, my friend, you are not to be
hippish. Let me tell you a fact.

I have met with, and treated, as my book
shows, fifty-seven cases of this kind of
vision, which I term indifferently "sublimated,"
"precocious," and "interior."

There is another class of affections which