Doctor Longstreet went about his operations in a rapid and business like fashion and John gave what assistance he could. The squire stood leaning against the chimney-piece in deep thought. Indeed he had enough to think of, when he had fully weighed the meaning of the doctor's words. He was surprised beyond measure at the turn things had taken; for although, as he had previously told John, he suspected that Goddard must have been in a fever for several hours before the assault, it had not struck him that Stamboul's attack had been absolutely harmless, still less that it might prove to have been the means of saving the convict's life. It was terribly hard to say that he desired to save the man, and yet the honest man in his heart prayed that he might really hope for that result. It would be far worse, should Goddard die, to remember that he had wished for his death. But it would be hard to imagine a more unexpected position than that in which the squire found himself; by a perfectly natural chain of circumstances he was now tending with the utmost care the man who had tried to murder him, and who of all men in the world, stood most in the way of the accomplishment of his desires. He could not hide from himself the fact that he hated the sick man, even though he hoped, or tried to hope for his recovery. He hated him for the shame and suffering he had brought upon Mary Goddard in the first instance, for the terrible anxiety he had caused her by his escape and sudden appearance at her house; he hated him for being what he was, being also the father of Nellie, and he hated him honestly for his base attempt upon himself that night. He had good cause to hate him, and perhaps he was not ashamed of his hatred. To be called upon, however, to return good for such an accumulated mass of evil was almost too much for his human nature. It was but a faint satisfaction to think that if he recovered he was to be sent back to prison. Mr. Juxon did not know that there was blood upon the man's hands--he had yet to learn that; he would not deign to mention the assault in the park when he handed him over to the authorities; the man should simply go back to Portland to suffer the term of his imprisonment, as soon as he should be well enough to be moved--if that time ever came. If he died, he should be buried decently in a nameless grave, "six feet by four, by two," as Thomas Reid would have said--if he died.