ering. Although unable to
speak, I could distinctly hear the conversation about me, and recognise
the voices of both Father Tom and the Major as they conversed with a
third party, whom I afterwards learned was the Galen of Loughrea.

Dr. Mopin, surgeon of the Roscommon militia, had been for forty years
the terror of the sick of the surrounding country; for, independent of
a naturally harsh and disagreeable manner, he had a certain slangy and
sneering way of addressing his patients that was perfectly shocking.
Amusing himself the while at their expense, by suggesting the various
unhappy and miserable consequences that might follow on their illness,
he appeared to take a diabolical pleasure in the terror he was capable
of eliciting. There was something almost amusing in the infernal
ingenuity he had acquired in this species of torture. There was no
stage of your illness, no phase of your constitution, no character or
condition of your malady, that was not the immediate forerunner of one
or more afflicting calamities. Were you getting weaker, it was the
way they always died out; did you gain strength, it was a rally before
death; were you despondent, it was the best for you to know your state;
were you sanguine, he would rebuke your good spirits and suggest the
propriety of a priest. However, with all these qualifications people put
up with him; and as he had a certain kind of rude skill, and never stuck
at a bold method, he obtained the best practice of the country and a
widespread reputation.

'Well,' said Father Tom, in a low voice--'well, Doctor, what do you
think of him this evening?'

'What do I think of him? Just what I thought before--congestion of the
membranes. This is the low stage he is in now; I wouldn't be surprised
if he'd get a little better in a few days, and then go off like the rest
of them.'

'Go off! eh? Now you don't mean----'

'Don't I? Maybe not. The ould story--coma, convulsions, and death.'

'Damn the fellow!' said the Major, in a muttered voice, 'I feel as if I
was in a well. But I say, Doctor, what are we to do?'

'Anything you plase. They say his family is mighty respectable, and have
plenty of money. I hope so; for here am I coming three times a day,
and maybe when he dies it will be a mourning ring they'll be sending
me instead of my fee. He was a dissipated chap I am sure: look at the
circles under his eyes!'

'Ay, ay,' said the priest, 'but they only came since his illness.'

'So