As soon as the Board of Health adjourned, I set off for the Hospital, and on my way there I called to enquire for Susan Taylor. Just as I arrived, Mary Taylor, the sister, met me at the door, and was sobbing so bitterly, she could scarcely tell me the cause of her distress. At last she said, Susan was worse than ever—she could not live ten minutes. Oh! sir, where is Mr. Langworthy? Well knowing that it was a case in which every moment was of the utmost importance, I hastened to the Hospital, where we had appointed to meet. He had not arrived. Having heard that he was at Underwood, I rode there; and, fortunately, I came up to him as he was in the act of mounting his horse at Gully’s cottage. In as few words as possible, I told him my errand. Poor Susan’s life was an object of peculiar anxiety to us. She had lost her husband and her only child within a few days; and she had been particularly active and serviceable as a nurse, in some of the most appalling cases. A very few minutes elapsed before we were at the house at Plympton. Our horses were sent to Mr. L.’s, as we knew that, if the patient did not die, we might be detained some time. Mary Taylor was so unwell, with strong symptoms of the same disease, Mr. L. gave her medicine, and advised her to remain below. We ascended the stairs, and at the first moment of entering the room, we thought it was all over. We found Susan quite cold—as cold as death—insensible—discoloured,—having no indication of pulse. We had no person to help us—we had no time to procure assistance. I knew my office in preparing for a repetition of the expedient of injection. This Mr. L. at once decided to be the only chance. Whilst he adjusted his instruments, the syringe, &c., I went below to prepare the fluid. I had about six quarts ready, and rejoined Mr. L. He was sitting on the bed, and prepared to open the vein of the patient’s right arm. I held the wrist, to keep it steady; and having endeavoured to ascertain whether there was any pulse, the cold blue hand dropped when I let it go. Mr. L. shook his head, and thought any attempt to restore animation would be useless. Notwithstanding this, as we could not tell what might be the effect under the hand of God, even in this most desperate case, I was ready with the warm mixture. The syringe was applied to the flaccid vein, which resembled a slight sinew. No blood flowed. To all appearance it contained nothing but a dark, glutinous, substance, about the colour and consistency of treacle; not more than a drop of which could be extracted, after pressing the vein in the usual manner to produce a flow of blood. Every heave of her labouring chest, seemed to be the last—weaker—weaker—at less frequent intervals. Never surely was life nearer extinct. The eyes were set upwards with a fixed and inanimate expression. We were now ready. I had a thermometer in the basin, and two jugs, one with the fluid hot, and the other cooler, so as