I may here interrupt my friend’s story to tell my reader that I may be mingling some of my own conclusions with what the good man told me of his. For he will see well enough already that I had in a moment attached his description to persons I knew, and, as it turned out, correctly, though I could not be certain about it till the story had advanced a little beyond this early stage of its progress. “I found the lady very weak and very feverish—a quick feeble pulse, now bounding, and now intermitting—and a restlessness in her eye which I felt contained the secret of her disorder. She kept glancing, as if involuntarily, towards the door, which would not open for all her looking, and I heard her once murmur to herself—for I was still quick of hearing then—‘He won’t come!’ Perhaps I only saw her lips move to those words—I cannot be sure, but I am certain she said them in her heart. I prescribed for her as far as I could venture, but begged a word with her mother. She went with me into an adjoining room. “‘The lady is longing for something,’ I said, not wishing to be so definite as I could have been. “The mother made no reply. I saw her lips shut yet closer than before. “‘She is your daughter, is she not?’ “‘Yes,’—very decidedly. “‘Could you not find out what she wishes?’ “‘Perhaps I could guess.’ “‘I do not think I can do her any good till she has what she wants.’ “‘Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor?’ she said, tartly. “‘Yes, certainly,’ I answered—‘in the present case. Is she married?’ “‘Yes.’ “‘Has she any children?’ “‘One daughter.’ “‘Let her see her, then.’ “‘She does not care to see her.’ “‘Where is her husband?’ “‘Excuse me, doctor; I did not send for you to ask questions, but to give advice.’ “‘And I came to ask questions, in order that I might give advice. Do you think a human being is like a clock, that can be taken to pieces, cleaned, and put together again?’ “‘My daughter’s condition is not a fit subject for jesting.’ “‘Certainly not. Send for her husband, or the undertaker, whichever you please,’ I said, forgetting my manners and my temper together, for I was more irritable then than I am now, and there was something so repulsive about the woman, that I felt as if I was talking to an evil creature that for her own ends, though what I could not tell, was tormenting the dying lady. “‘I understood you were a GENTLEMAN—of experience and breeding.’ “‘I am not in the question, madam. It is your daughter.’ “‘She shall take your prescription.’ “‘She must see her husband if it be possible.’ “‘It is not possible.’ “‘Why?’ “‘I say it is not possible, and that is enough. Good morning.’