It was late at night. Before a table covered with the monuments of erudition and thought sat a young man with a pale and worn countenance. The clock in the room told with a fretting distinctness every moment that lessened the journey to the grave. There was an anxious and expectant expression on the face of the student, and from time to time he glanced to the clock, and muttered to himself. Was it a letter from some adored mistress--the soothing flattery from some mighty arbiter of arts and letters--that the young man eagerly awaited? No; the aspirer was forgotten in the valetudinarian. Ernest Maltravers was waiting the visit of his physician, whom at that late hour a sudden thought had induced him to summon from his rest. At length the well-known knock was heard, and in a few moments the physician entered. He was one well versed in the peculiar pathology of book men, and kindly as well as skilful. "My dear Mr. Maltravers, what is this? How are we?--not seriously ill, I hope--no relapse--pulse low and irregular, I see, but no fever. You are nervous." "Doctor," said the student, "I did not send for you at this time of night from the idle fear or fretful caprice of an invalid. But when I saw you this morning, you dropped some hints which have haunted me ever since. Much that it befits the conscience and the soul to attend to without loss of time depends upon my full knowledge of my real state. If I understand you rightly, I may have but a short time to live--is it so?" "Indeed!" said the doctor, turning away his face; "you have exaggerated my meaning. I did not say that you were in what we technically call danger." "Am I then likely to be a /long/-lived man?" The doctor coughed--"That is uncertain, my dear young friend," said he, after a pause. "Be plain with me. The plans of life must be based upon such calculations as we can reasonably form of its probable duration. Do not fancy that I am weak enough or coward enough to shrink from any abyss which I have approached unconsciously; I desire--I adjure--nay, I command you to be explicit." There was an earnest and solemn dignity in his patient's voice and manner which deeply touched and impressed the good physician. "I will answer you frankly," said he; "you overwork the nerves and the brain; if you do not relax, you will subject yourself to confirmed disease and premature death. For several months--perhaps for years to come--you should wholly cease from literary labour. Is this a hard sentence? You are rich and young--enjoy yourself while you can." Maltravers appeared satisfied--changed the conversation--talked easily on other matters for a few minutes: nor was it till he had dismissed his physician that he broke forth with the thoughts that were burning in him.