Hurried footsteps were now heard on the winding stairs, which were between the fire-place and the window. “He’s gone! sir,—he’s gone!” was exclaimed, with a trembling, hysterical voice. Both the Messrs. Langworthy and myself were obliged to summon all our resolution. The wife and children around us,—one ill in its weeping mother’s arms, frightened, not knowing why—the others staring at us, aware that something was being done which appeared to them to be fearful. The sister, the friend—all with their eyes intently rivetted upon us, as if life and death depended upon our exertions! This was natural. How many have watched the countenance of the physician when a much-loved life was pending! A piece of bread was given to one of the children, to pacify it,—a part, perhaps, of the last loaf earned by its poor father’s labour! Rapidly as some such thoughts rushed upon the mind, we did not remit our work, and every thing was ready. We were quickly by the side of the sufferer. From all appearances, the accounts were too well founded. No pulse,—Is he quite gone? The eye moved,—he tried to raise himself—looked at us—and, recognizing me, gave me his hand, but could not speak. He knew what was said, and held out his arm. The vein was opened—no blood flowed—it was empty. He uttered a low moan, looked at his arm, and shook his head. His wife, with breathless anxiety, appeared at the door: we persuaded her to retire. The warm fluid was placed on the window-seat near the bed. It was again tried by the thermometer. Eight quarts were ready, and the process of injecting the vein was commenced. The greater portion entered. The breathing of the patient became laborious, and the pulse returned. Violent sickness ensued. Some weak gruel, with a teaspoonful of brandy mixed in it, quieted the sickness. The poor man began to speak. In a low whisper, thanked God—thanked us—and said he felt as if he should recover. At eleven o’clock, Mr. Langworthy returned home with me, as both of us required rest.