“_I_ want you,” and with that he pushed open the door, and to his confusion (and mine) encountered Dr. Reynolds’s merry, mischievous eyes, the occurrence, of course, only serving to confirm her in her belief that there was something more than good-fellowship between us. Laidlaw and James often rang my bell of an evening, summoning me to the office, when it was only they who wanted me. They knew that I never dared disregard it, for fear it might be a call to the wards; once down there, I was usually easily persuaded to stay. That night after Dr. Reynolds left, I went down, but when reading aloud was proposed, did not fall in with the proposition--the good times we had all had together were so soon to end--I was in no mood for reading aloud. We sat near each other, each busy with his own book, or pretending to be. Later, having dropped my book, I was looking out of the window, fearing Laidlaw would see my tell-tale face, when, presently, taking me by the shoulder, he gently turned me round facing him: “What are you doing, Little Arnold?” “Thinking.” “_Don’t_ think.” It was all he said, but his tone, and my silence, were tacit acknowledgment--we understood each other better then, and after that he did not chide me, as he had before, for not caring that he was so soon to go away. Those last days of his stay were very hard, and when the day came when he assisted at operations for the last time, and we were clearing up afterward as usual, we laughed a sort of hollow laughter, laughed at anything and everything; at the awkwardness of the stuttering little student, his successor--we tried to find funny things to talk about--anything so long as we kept away from what was uppermost in our minds, and allowed no silences. When Laidlaw left, James was away on his vacation, and a likeable little German student, who was acting as substitute, was very acceptable to both of us, we three being very congenial. When Laidlaw put out his hand to the German to bid him farewell, he attempted to be jocose, but failed sadly; then, “Take good care of Little Arnold, Old Boy,” he said, and, turning to me, drew me to him and would have kissed me; but, fond as I was of him, I couldn’t do that. He looked pained. By this time I could no longer control my tears; this surprised and perplexed him: “Why, why, why--Little Arnold, why, you _do_ care!” and standing dumb for an instant, he wrung my hand and went slowly out and down the steps; and I--I felt I had lost my last friend.