on of the vanished
Pratt.

Gilbert shared the nurse's watch till past midnight. Long before that
John Saltram woke from his heavy sleep, and there was more of that
incoherent talk so painful to hear--talk of people that were dead, of
scenes that were far away, even of those careless happy wanderings in
which those two college friends had been together; and then mere nonsense
talk, shreds and patches of random thought, that scorned to be drawn
from, some rubbish-chamber, some waste-paper basket of the brain.

It was weary work. He woke towards eleven, and a little after twelve
dropped asleep again; but this time, the effect of the sedative having
worn off, the sleep was restless and uneasy. Then came a brief interval
of quiet; and in this Gilbert left him, and flung himself down upon the
sofa, to sink into a slumber that was scarcely more peaceful than that of
the sick man.

He was thoroughly worn out, however, and slept for some hours, to be
awakened suddenly at last by a shrill cry in the next room. He sprang up
from the sofa, and rushed in. John Saltram was sitting up in bed, propped
by the pillows on which his two elbows were planted, looking about him
with a fierce haggard face, and calling for "Marian." The nurse had
fallen asleep in her arm-chair by the fire, and was slumbering placidly.

"Marian," he cried, "Marian, why have you left me? God knows I loved you;
yes, even when I seemed cold and neglectful. Everything was against me;
but I loved you, my dear, I loved you! Did I ever say that you came
between me and fortune--was I mean enough, base enough, ever to say that?
It was a lie, my love; you were my fortune. Were poverty and obscurity
hard things to bear for you? No, my darling, no; I will face them
to-morrow, if you will come back to me. O no, no, she is gone; my life
has gone: I broke her heart with my hard bitter words; I drove my angel
away from me."

He had not spoken so coherently since Gilbert had been with him that
day. Surely this must be an interval of consciousness, or
semi-consciousness. Gilbert went to the bedside, and, seating himself
there quietly, looked intently at the altered face, which stared at him
without a gleam of recognition.

"Speak to me, John Saltram," he said. "You know me, don't you--the man
who was once your friend, Gilbert Fenton?"

The other burst into a wild bitter laugh. "Gilbert Fenton--my friend, the
man who trusts me still! Poor old Gilbert! and I fancied that I