"My brother! He's my boy, my own, my precious child!" Her voice rose to a shriek, as she saw that his features became more convulsed. She cried, she wrung her hands, calling continually, "Eugene, my pet, my darling! I won't give you up! You sha'n't die!" "He will die, and very soon, if you do not control yourself. You must be calm." Addressing one of the servants, who had just returned with the prescription, he ordered Eugene's head to be held, while he forced down the medicine. Then turning to Mrs. Douglass, he said, "Madam, will you try to bring your daughter to reason? Every moment of delay makes the boy's situation more dangerous. With the aid of the servants, I wish to use the steam." He really pitied the child-mother, as he saw her fixed gaze in her son's convulsed face; but he knew that unless vigorous measures were used, a short time would end the struggle. Taking Eugene in his own arms, he directed the girl to wrap the boy in the large blanket and hold him over the boiling water. The other girl was to furnish a fresh supply. Mrs. Douglass tried to persuade her daughter to leave the room; but she would not. She sank into a chair and watched every movement which took place. She seemed suddenly to be turned into an automaton, only that those wondrous eyes flashed so continuously they seemed to light up the room. In half an hour the medicine began to take effect, the terrible sound, never to be forgotten, grew less harsh. The doctor, with his coat off, worked like a hero. It was evident that the steam produced relief in breathing. More and more heavily drooped the child's head, his eyelids closed, the terrible heaving of his breast was more natural. The doctor put his hand under the blanket, found the pulse, and nodded approval. Without awakening the boy, he put a small powder on his tongue and sat down to watch. Another hour passed. Mrs. Douglass had quietly retired to the next room. Eugene slept still. He had been removed to the sofa. The doctor still waited. The struggle for life had been so great, he did not like to leave his patient till assured that he would have no return of the frightful convulsions. He was a father too, and aside from his desire as a physician to control the disease, he was interested in the unusual circumstances of the patient. At home, he had a daughter growing up, now in her seventeenth year, who looked more fit to be a mother than this passionate girl, who at one moment gave free vent to her frenzied agony, and the next controlled herself so wonderfully that she had sat for hours scarcely daring to breathe.