llow of his hand.

'And aren't they better--his pulse, Sir--they were stronger this morning
by a great deal than last night--it was just at ten o'clock--don't you
perceive, Sir?'

'H'm--well, I hope, Ma'am, we'll soon find _all_ better. Now, have you
got all things ready--you have, of course, a sheet well aired?'

'A sheet--I did not know 'twas wanted.'

'Hey, this will never do, my dear Madam--he'll be here and nothing
ready; and you'll do well to send over to the mess-room for a lump of
ice. 'Tis five minutes past nine. If you'll see to these things, I'll
sit here, Madam, and take the best care of the patient--and, d'ye see,
Mistress Sturk, 'twill be necessary that you take care that Toole hears
nothing of Dr. Dillon's coming.'

It struck me, when originally reading the correspondence which is
digested in these pages, as hardly credible that Doctor Sturk should
have continued to live for so long a space in a state of coma. Upon this
point, therefore, I took occasion to ask the most eminent surgeon of my
acquaintance, who at once quieted my doubts by detailing a very
remarkable case cited by Sir A. Cooper in his lectures, Vol. I., p. 172.
It is that of a seaman, who was pressed on board one of his Majesty's
ships, early in the revolutionary war; and while on board this vessel,
fell from the yard-arm, and was taken up insensible, in which state he
continued living for thirteen months and some days!

So with a little more talk, Mrs. Sturk, calling one of her maids, and
leaving the little girl in charge of the nursery, ran down with
noiseless steps and care-worn face to the kitchen, and Mr. Dangerfield
was left alone in the chamber with the spell-bound sleeper on the bed.

In about ten seconds he rose sharply from his chair and listened: then
very noiselessly he stepped to the door and listened again, and gently
shut it.

Then Mr. Dangerfield moved to the window. There was a round hole in the
shutter, and through it he glanced into the street, and was satisfied.

By this time he had his white-pocket-handkerchief in his hands. He
folded it deftly across and across into a small square, and then the
spectacles flashed coldly on the image of Dr. Sturk, and then on the
door; and there was a pause.

'What's that?' he muttered sharply, and listened for a second or two.

It was only one of the children crying in the nursery. The sound
subsided.

So with another long silent step, he stood by the capriole-legged old