‘In future,’ said Lucius in his cheery tone—he never discouraged a patient—‘it will be well for you, to live more luxuriously. Stint yourself in nothing, and let the money you have hitherto spent in adding to your collection be henceforth devoted to good old port and a liberal dietary.’ ‘I have spent nothing lately,’ said Sivewright sharply; ‘I have had nothing to spend.’ ‘I don’t want to doubt your word,’ replied Lucius; ‘but I tell you frankly you must live better than you have done, if you wish to live much longer.’ ‘I do,’ cried the old man with sudden energy; ‘I have prayed for long life—I who pray so little. Yes, I have sent up that one supplication to the blind blank sky. I want to live for long years to come. If I had been born three hundred years ago, I should have sought for the sublime secret—the elixir of life. But I live in an age when men believe in nothing,’ with a profound sigh. ‘Say rather in an age when men reserve their faith for the God who made them, instead of exhausting their powers of belief upon crucibles and alembics,’ answered Lucius in his most practical tone. Then followed his _régime_, simple and sagacious, but to be followed strictly. ‘I should like to say a few words to your granddaughter,’ he said; ‘so much in these cases depends upon good nursing.’ ‘Say what you please,’ replied Mr. Sivewright, ringing his bell, ‘but let it be said in my hearing. I don’t relish the notion of being treated like a child; of having powders given me unawares in jam, or senna in my tea. If you have a sentence of death to pronounce, pronounce it fearlessly. I am stoic enough to hear my death-warrant unmoved.’ ‘I shall make no such demand upon your stoicism. The duration of your life will depend very much on your own prudence. Of course at sixty the avenue at the end of which a man sees his grave is not an endless perspective. But you have a comfortable time before you yet, Mr. Sivewright, if you will live wisely and make the most of it.’ Lucille came in response to the bell, and to her Lucius repeated his directions as to diet and general treatment. ‘I am not going to dose your grandfather with drugs,’ he said; ‘a mild tonic, to promote appetite, is all I shall give him. He complains of sleeplessness, a natural effect of thinking much, and monotonously brooding on some one theme, and that not a pleasant one.’ The old man looked at him sharply, angrily even. ‘I don’t want any fortune-telling,’ he said; ‘stick to your text. You profess to cure the body, and not the mind.’ ‘Unless the mind will consent to assist the cure, my art is hopeless,’ answered Lucius. He finished his advice, dwelling much on that essential point, a generous diet. The girl looked at her grandfather doubtfully. He seemed to answer the look. ‘The money must be found, child,’ he said, in a fretful tone, ‘if I part with the gems of my collection. After all, life is the great necessity; all ends with that.’