He shook hands with them in silence, and eyed the patient keenly. He took the nightcap off, removed the pillows, lowered his head, and said quietly, “This is the cold fit come on: we must not shut our eyes on the pashint. Why, what is this? he has been cupped!” And Sampson changed colour and his countenance fell. Mrs. Dodd saw and began to tremble. “I could not hear from you; and Dr. Short and Mr. Osmond felt quite sure: and he seems better. Oh, Dr. Sampson, why were you not here? We have bled him as well. Oh, don't, don't, don't say it was wrong! He would have died; they said so. Oh, David! David! your wife has killed you.” And she knelt and kissed his hand and implored his pardon, insensible. Julia clung sobbing to her mother, in a vain attempt to comfort her. Sampson groaned. “No, no,” said he: “don't go on so, my poor soul; you did all for the best; and now we must make the best of what is done. Hartshorn! brandy! and caution! For those two assassins have tied my hands.” While applying these timid remedies, he inquired if the cause was known. They told him they knew nothing; but that David had been wrecked on the coast of France, and had fallen down senseless in the street: a clerk of Mr. Hardie's had recognised him, and brought him home: so Alfred said. “Then the cause is mintil,” said Sampson, “unless he got a blow on the hid in bein' wrecked.”' He then examined David's head carefully, and found a long scar. “But this is not it,” said he; “this is old.” Mrs. Dodd clasped her hands, and assured him it was new to her: her David had no scar there when he left her last. Pursuing his examination, Sampson found an open wound in his left shoulder. He showed it them; and they were all as pale as the patient in a moment. He then asked to see his coat, and soon discovered a corresponding puncture in it, which he examined long and narrowly. “It is a stab--with a one-edged knife.” There was a simultaneous cry of horror. “Don't alarm yourselves for that,” said Sampson; “it is nothing: a mere flesh-wound. It is the vein-wound that alarms me. This school knows nothing about the paroxysms and remissions of disease. They have bled and cupped him for a _passing fit._ It has passed into the cold stage, but no quicker than it would have done without stealing a drop of blood. To-morrow, by disease's nature, he will have another hot fit in spite of their bleeding. Then those ijjits would leech his temples; and on that paroxysm remitting by the nature of the disease, would fancy their leeches had cured it.” The words were the old words, but the tone and manner was so different: no shouting, no anger: all was spoken low and gently, and with a sort of sad and weary and worn-out air. He ordered a kettle of hot water and a quantity of mustard, and made his preparations for the hot fit, as he called it, maintaining the intermittent and febrile character of all disease. The patient rambled a good deal, but quite incoherently, and knew nobody.