"Wainwright! not son of---- My dear sir, I am glad to make your acquaintance; one of the brightest ornaments of our profession; any care that I should have bestowed on this interesting case will be redoubled now that I know that our poor young friend here is a friend of yours. You will kindly take care that these prescriptions are made up at Balsam and Balmelow's, if you please; must have the best of drugs in these cases, and no other house is so much to be depended upon. Now I must run away; I will look in again in the evening; and during my absence I will make arrangements for the night-nurse. The attendance in the daytime I must look to you to provide. Good-day, my dear sir." And wringing George's hand warmly, the little man trotted off, jumped into his brougham, and was driven away to inspect, prescribe for, and chatter with a dozen other cases within the next few hours. George sat down by the bedside and bent over its occupant, who was tossing restlessly from side to side, gazing about him with vacant eyes, and muttering and moaning in his delirium. What were the words, incoherent and broken, issuing from his parched lips? "My darling, my darling, stay by me now--no more horrible parting--never again that scornful look! Daisy, say you did not mean it when you wrote; say there is no one else--to-morrow, darling, in the old place--come and tell me your mind--my wife, my darling!" These words were uttered with such intensity of earnestness--and although Paul's glance was never settled, his eyes roving here and there as he tossed and flung about his arms on the bed, there was such a piteous look in his face--that George Wainwright's emotion overcame him, and two big tears rolled down his cheeks.