“I can’t be in hell, after all, for in hell no one comes from heaven to put a cool——” Then his words became inaudible until he dropped into unconsciousness with the last word—“purgatory”—on his failing tongue. All the remainder of the night he slept well, only occasionally muttering in his sleep: “Not in hell, after all—only in purgatory—not such a bad place.” In the morning when the doctor came to make his daily visit he found the ill man sleeping quietly and Mr. Campbell and Longman sitting by his bed. He examined the patient’s pulse and temperature without waking him, and then took the two watchers’ report. “Took nourishment with a relish and spoke consciously—both good signs, excellent signs! but I can say no more at present.” The doctor wrote out the formulas for the day and took leave. All that day Gentleman Geff remained in the same condition without a sign of further improvement. All the following night Longman had a repetition of the experience of the preceding night. At dawn his mother, Elspeth, relieved him and sent him to bed. After the family breakfast Mr. Campbell came in and sent Elspeth out to get her own coffee and muffins. The sick-room was still kept very dark by the doctor’s orders. Darkness, he said, was the best sedative for nerves and brain in the condition of Capt. Montgomery. When the sick man showed by moaning and moving uneasily that he was awake, the rector took some beef tea that was kept hot over a spirit lamp, poured it into an invalid’s feeding-glass and administered it to the patient. Gentleman Geff sucked it in with a relish, and then sank back on his pillow with a sigh of satisfaction. When Mr. Campbell had put away the cup and returned to his seat by the bedside he was startled by hearing the patient inquire: “Who the devil are you, I wonder?” He answered calmly, however: “One whom you should know, Capt. Montgomery. I am James Campbell, rector of——” But he was interrupted by an exclamation from Gentleman Geff. “The devil you say! The curate of Medge in purgatory! a parson in purgatory! When did your reverence die?” The rector paused a few moments before he replied, and then he spoke very quietly: “I am not dead, nor likely to die; nor are you in purgatory as you seem to think.” “What! are you living?” “Yes, I thank Heaven.” “And—I living also?” “Yes! And I say thank Heaven for you also.” “Where are we, then?” questioned the man in a quavering voice. But before the rector could answer his question, and even while the question was on his lips, Gentleman Geff had fainted into forgetfulness. In his struggling soul, striving back to consciousness from his long stupor, the wretched man had been the victim of three several hallucinations. First, that he was dead and buried, and while in that state he made no sign. Second, that he was in hell, and then his wail for water and the drink that was given him dispelled the illusion, which was replaced by the fancy that he was in purgatory.