The woman screwed her lips up very tightly as she said she hoped he might, but Septimus thought of the expiring lamp and its supply of oil; and it was little of his own affairs, and the possibility of there being an entry locked in the old man's clouded memory, that he thought of as he stammered, "Pray do all you can for him. I am sorry I can offer you no more." "Bless you, sir, you needn't even have done that. If it had been a guinea, it would have been all the same, and I shouldn't have thought a bit the better of you. We have a painful duty to perform here, sir, and it's an unthankful task, for there's no gratitude from the patients; but when a friend or relative makes one a little offering, why, setting aside the value, sir, it does seem to make things better, and to sweeten the toil. We never do expect any praise; while as to some of the tales the patients make up, you'd be surprised. Poor things! you see, their minds wander a bit, and they always seem to take a dislike to those who are like mothers to them. But there, sir, I always says to myself, I says, it's no use to take any notice of the poor things' whims, so long as we know we do our duty by them." "I suppose," said Septimus, "their complaints weaken their intellects a good deal?" "Wonderfully, I do assure you, sir. Now I shouldn't be a bit surprised if that poor gentleman, your friend, has been telling you all sorts of things?" Septimus did not believe all that Matt had said, but he evaded the question. "You'd be surprised, sir, if you only knew one-half the tales they make up, sir. There, I can't help it, sir; I laugh, I do, when I think of them; for we must be able to eat and drink like bore-constructors, sir, to manage a quarter of what they says. They say we eat their chicking and jelly, and drink their wine, and gin, and fancy things the doctors order for them. Some even goes further than that; but then the doctors know what people are in such a state, and don't take any notice of them." "`Mrs Hardon; medicine and attendance.' I wonder whether it's true, or only a sick man's fancy?" muttered Septimus aloud, as he went down the steps, and stood once more in the open air, feeling as though a weight had been raised from his spirits. "Poor creatures, poor creatures! left to the tender mercies of those women, and often neglected and left to die." "No, no, no! pray don't say so," sobbed a voice at his elbow. "It's bad enough, I know; but not so bad as that, please!" And then a burst of sobs choked the speaker's utterance. Septimus started, for the voice seemed familiar, and he saw beside him a tall, well-dressed female, with a thick wool-veil drawn down over her face, so that he could not distinguish her features. "I knew you again, Mr--Mr--Mr--you did tell me your name, but I've forgotten it; and I asked him, and he said--but dear, dear," she sobbed, "can you see that I have been crying? And have you been in that dreadful place?"