d to carry them
upstairs. This was Doctor Benjulia's regular weekly supply of
medical literature; and here, again, the mysterious man presented an
incomprehensible problem to his fellow-creatures. He subscribed to
every medical publication in England--and he never read one of them! The
footman cut the leaves; and the master, with his forefinger to help
him, ran his eye up and down the pages; apparently in search of some
announcement that he never found--and, still more extraordinary, without
showing the faintest sign of disappointment when he had done. Every
week, he briskly shoved his unread periodicals into a huge basket, and
sent them downstairs as waste paper.

The footman took up the newspapers and the dinner together--and was
received with frowns and curses. He was abused for everything that he
did in his own department, and for everything that the cook had done
besides. "Whatever the master's working at," he announced, on returning
to the kitchen, "he's farther away from hitting the right nail on the
head than ever. Upon my soul, I think I shall have to give warning!
Let's relieve our minds. Where's the Christmas Number?"

Half an hour later, the servants were startled by a tremendous bang of
the house-door which shook the whole building. The footman ran upstairs:
the dining-room was empty; the master's hat was not on its peg in the
hall; and the medical newspapers were scattered about in the wildest
confusion. Close to the fender lay a crumpled leaf, torn out. Its
position suggested that it had narrowly missed being thrown into the
fire. The footman smoothed it out, and looked at it.

One side of the leaf contained a report of a lecture. This was dry
reading. The footman tried the other side, and found a review of a new
medical work.

This would have been dull reading too, but for an extract from a
Preface, stating how the book came to be published, and what wonderful
discoveries, relating to peoples' brains, it contained. There were some
curious things said here--especially about a melancholy deathbed at a
place called Montreal--which made the Preface almost as interesting as a
story. But what was there in this to hurry the master out of the house,
as if the devil had been at his heels?

Doctor Benjulia's nearest neighbour was a small farmer named Gregg. He
was taking a nap that evening, when his wife bounced into the room, and
said, "Here's the big doctor gone mad!" And there he was truly, at Mrs.
Gregg'