"I'm--I'm not a very good hand at eloquence, Miss Maurice--might put pebbles in my mouth and shout at the sea-shore and all that kind of thing, like the--the celebrated Greek person, you know--and wouldn't help me in getting out a word; but though I can't explain, I feel very grateful to you for sending for me, to see--dear old boy!" The knot which had been rising in Algy Barford's throat during this speech had grown nearly insurmountable by this time, and there were two big tears running down his waistcoat. He tried to pull himself together as he said: "If he has any thing to say, which he would like to say to me--of course--I shall--any thing that would--God bless him, my dear old boy!--good, patient, dear darling old boy, God bless him!" The thought of losing his old friend flashed across him in all its dread heart-wringing dreariness, and Algy Barford fairly broke down and wept like a child. Recovering himself after a moment, he seized Annie's hand, and muttering something to the effect that he would be back as soon as he had made himself a little less like an Esquimaux, he dashed into the cab and was whirled away. You would scarcely have thought that Algy Barford had had what is called sleep, but what really is a mixture of nightmare and cramp in a railway-carriage, had you seen him at eleven o'clock, when he next made his appearance at St. Barnabas Square, so bright and fresh and radiant was he. He found Annie Maurice awaiting his arrival, and had with her a short earnest conversation as to Caterham's state. From that he learned all. The doctors had a very bad opinion of their patient's state: it was--hum--ha!--Yes--you know!--general depression--a want of vitality, which--just now--looking at his normal lack of force, of what we call professionally _vis vita_, might--eh? Yes, no doubt, serious result. Could not be positively stated whether he would not so far recover--pull through, as it is called--rally, as we say, as to--remain with us yet some time; but in these cases there was always--well, yes, it must be called a risk. This was the decision which the doctors had given to Annie, and which she, in other words, imparted to Algy Barford, who, coupling it with his experience of the guarded manner in which fashionable physicians usually announced their opinions, felt utterly hopeless, and shook his head mournfully. He tried to be himself; to resume his old smile and old confident buoyant way; he told his dear Miss Maurice that she must hope for the best; that these doctor-fellows, by Jove, generally knew nothing; half of them died suddenly themselves, without even having anticipated their own ailments; "physician, heal thyself," and all that sort of thing; that probably Caterham wanted a little rousing, dear old boy; which rousing he would go in and give him. But Annie marked the drooping head and the sad despondent manner in which he shrugged his shoulders and plunged