on his cushions and
closed his eyes.

"A great poet," I continued. "What insight into character! What
knowledge of mankind! What a versatile genius! With what truth and
exquisite feeling he portrays both the king and the peasant, the
courtier and the jester! How truly he seizes the leading characteristics
of the Jew and the Christian in his 'Merchant of Venice,' to say nothing
of his sublime imagination in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and in 'The
Tempest'; the exquisite humours, too, of his 'Merry Wives of Windsor,'
and then there is his----"

At this juncture my patient opened his eyes, and gave me a look that
seemed to say, "Have you done yet?" and, after a pause, said aloud, "I
thought you were the doctor."

"Ah! truly," said I, blushing slightly; "I am afraid, I weary you.
Pardon me if my enthusiasm for your great poet has carried me away from
my professional duties. But, to business. How do you feel at present?"

He eyed me with a peculiar expression, and said, "Do you really want to
know?"

"To be sure I do; haven't I come----"

"You have heard that I have been given over as incurable. The last
doctor was an older man than you. What do you hope to effect?"

"To effect a cure; _I_ do not give you up. I do _not_ think your disease
is consumption. I hope in time to----"

"To what?" he asked, nervously.

"Well, to be able to serve you."

"No," he cried, "not to _serve_ me, but to _cure_ me."

"In curing you, shall I not serve you?"

"No. I do not want to be cured. Leave me to die, if you want to serve
me."

"Oh, my dear young man," I cried, "don't talk like that. Your malady is
not of the sort that you need fear death so soon."

"Fear death!" he exclaimed. "On the contrary, I seek death. I desire to
die."

"What! you desire to die? A young man like you, in the pride of your
youth, with the whole world before you. What can make you so tired of
your life?"

"Because my life's a burden to me."

"Poor young man," I said, "can you have suffered so much! Ah," I
muttered, half to myself, "youth has its sufferings as well as age."

I was young myself then, and I had suffered. I felt the deepest sympathy
for my patient.

"If," I resumed, "in curing you I could make life cease to be a
burden----"

"I would not accept the offer," he replied. "What should I gain by it?
The grosser material part of my nature would be rendered more gross,
more material; capable only of those delights that the grossest