I stood speechless--my father crept on, and took the hand that returned no pressure:--The child only did not seem to share our emotions,--but, clambering on the bed, laid her cheek on the breast and was still. "Pisistratus," whispered my father at last, and I stole near, hushing my breath--"Pisistratus, if your mother were here!" I nodded; the same thought had struck us both. His deep wisdom, my active youth, both felt their nothingness then and there. In the sick chamber, both turned helplessly to miss the _woman_. So I stole out, descended the stairs, and stood in the open air in a sort of stunned amaze. Then the tramp of feet, and the roll of wheels, and the great London roar, revived me. That contagion of practical life which lulls the heart and stimulates the brain,--what an intellectual mystery there is in its common atmosphere! In another moment I had singled out, like an inspiration, from a long file of those ministrants of our Trivia, the cab of the lightest shape and with the strongest horse, and was on my way, not to my mother's, but to Dr M---- H----, Manchester Square, whom I knew as the medical adviser to the Trevanions. Fortunately, that kind and able physician was at home, and he promised to be with the sufferer before I myself could join him. I then drove to Russell Street, and broke to my mother, as cautiously as I could, the intelligence with which I was charged. When we arrived at The Lamb, we found the doctor already writing his prescription and injunctions: the activity of the treatment announced the danger. I flew for the surgeon who had been before called in. Happy those who are strange to that indescribable silent bustle which the sick-room at times presents--that conflict which seems almost hand to hand between life and death--when all the poor, unresisting, unconscious frame is given up to the war against its terrible enemy; the dark blood flowing--flowing; the hand on the pulse, the hushed suspense, every look on the physician's bended brow; then the sinaplasms to the feet, and the ice to the head; and now and then, through the lull or the low whispers, the incoherent voice of the sufferer--babbling, perhaps, of green fields and fairyland, while your hearts are breaking! Then, at length, the sleep--in that sleep, perhaps, the crisis--the breathless watch, the slow waking, the first _sane_ words--the old smile again, only fainter--your gushing tears, your low--"Thank God! thank God!" Picture all this; it is past: Roland has spoken--his sense has returned--my mother is leaning over him--his child's small hands are clasped round his neck--the surgeon, who has been there six hours, has taken up his hat, and smiles gaily as he nods farewell--and my father is leaning against the wall, with his face covered with his hands. CHAPTER XXXVI.