The doctor forced himself to reply: “I hardly know how I came to have the book here. Yet he does make out a pretty strong case. I confess I would like to be certified that he is right. Suppose you allow yourself to be convinced?” And the poor fellow grinned: it couldn’t be called a smile. “Why, really, I’ll look into it. I’ve considered the point though, not that I’m sure I could choose. And you know, as the late J. Milton very neatly observed, one would hardly like to lose one’s intellectual being, ‘though full of pain;’” and he smiled, not unkindly but sadly, and then resumed: “A Bible too. Very good edition. I remember seeing it stated that a professional person made it his business to find errors of the press in one of the Bible Society’s editions--this very one, I think; and the only one he could discover was a single ‘wrong font.’ Very accurate work--very!” He had been turning over the leaves indifferently as he spoke, and laid the volume easily back. “Curious old superstition that,” he remarked, “that certain personages were made uncomfortable by this work!” And he gave the doctor a glance, as much as to ask, in the most delicate manner in the world, “Did you put that there to scare me with?” I think the doctor blushed a little. He had not really expected, you know,--still, in case there should be any prophylactic influence--? No harm done, in any event; and that was precisely the observation made by the guest. “No harm done, my dear fellow!” he said, in his calm, quiet, musical voice. No good, either, I imagine they both of them added to themselves. There is an often repeated observation, that people under the pressure of an immeasurable misery or agony seem to take on a preternaturally sharp vision for minute details, such as spots in the carpet, and sprigs in the wall-paper, threads on a sleeve, and the like. Probably the doctor felt this influence. He had dallied a little, too, with the crisis; and so did his visitor--from different motives, no doubt; and, as he sat there, his eye fell on the card that had just been brought to him. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “but might I ask a question about your card?” “Most certainly, doctor: what is it?” “Why--it’s always a liberty to ask questions about a gentleman’s name, and we Scotchmen are particularly sensitive on the point; but I have always been interested in the general subject of patronomatology.” The other, by a friendly smile and a deprecating wave of the hand, renewed his welcome to the doctor’s question. “Well, it’s this: How did you come to decide upon that form of name--Mr. Apollo Lyon?” “Oh! just a little fancy of mine. It’s a newly-invented variable card, I believe they call it. There’s a temporary ink arrangement. It struck me it was liable to abuse in case of an assumption of _aliases_; but perhaps that’s none of my business. You can easily take off the upper name, and another one comes out underneath. I’m always interested in inventions. See.”