d to do it."

I interrupted him again, eager to hear the end.

"And she found the bottle?" I said.

"She found the bottle," Mr. Engelman resumed. "I can show it to you, if
you like. She has herself requested me to keep it under lock and key, so
long as it is wanted in this house."

He opened an old cabinet, and took out a long narrow bottle of dark-blue
glass. In form, it was quaintly and remarkably unlike any modern bottle
that I had ever seen. The glass stopper was carefully secured by a piece
of leather, for the better preservation, I suppose, of the liquid inside.
Down one side of the bottle ran a narrow strip of paper, notched at
regular intervals to indicate the dose that was to be given. No label
appeared on it; but, examining the surface of the glass carefully, I
found certain faintly-marked stains, which suggested that the label might
have been removed, and that some traces of the paste or gum by which it
had been secured had not been completely washed away. I held the bottle
up to the light, and found that it was still nearly half full. Mr.
Engelman forbade me to remove the stopper. It was very important, he
said, that no air should be admitted to the bottle, except when there was
an actual necessity for administering the remedy.

"I took it away with me the same night," he went on. "And a wretched
state of mind I was in, between my anxiety to give the medicine to poor
dear Keller immediately, and my fear of taking such a serious
responsibility entirely on myself. Madame Fontaine, always just in her
views, said, 'You had better wait and consult the doctors.' She made but
one condition (the generous creature!) relating to herself. 'If the
remedy is tried,' she said, 'I must ask you to give it a fair chance by
permitting me to act as nurse; the treatment of the patient when he
begins to feel the benefit of the medicine is of serious importance. I
know this from my husband's instructions, and it is due to his memory (to
say nothing of what is due to Mr. Keller) that I should be at the
bedside.' It is needless to say that I joyfully accepted the offered
help. So the night passed. The next morning, soon after you fell asleep,
the doctors came. You may imagine what they thought of poor Keller, when
I tell you that they recommended me to write instantly to Fritz in London
summoning him to his father's bedside. I was just in time to catch the
special mail which left this morning. Don't blame me, David. I could not