I must return here, for a little while, to my old friend, whose delirium and stupor, to the wonder alike of physicians and nurses, passed off, after many weeks of tedious suffering, during which time I had talked to him, read to him, and written letters at his dictation, quite unconscious that he was still very much under the influence of fever. His sister remained till she saw that he would probably live, and then was obliged to return to her home. He could carry on a perfectly rational conversation, although always inclined to excitement; and it was quite evident, from the whole tone of his remarks, that his “hoary hairs” were anything but a “crown of righteousness.” I link these two cases together because they were so linked, strangely enough, from the beginning, and still more in the end, and so must ever remain in my mind. Several weeks passed by, during which I was not at the hospital; and when I returned, what was my surprise to find our patient up, dressed, and seated by the stove. “Why, Jackson, is it possible? How glad I am to see you so much better.” He looked at me without a sign of recognition, rose, bowed, but said nothing. “Don’t you remember me, or what is the matter?” said I, thoroughly puzzled. “I never saw you before, ma’am, did I? Never to my knowledge.” “Well done for you, Jackson!” and “That’s a good one, isn’t it?” burst from more than one of the men, with a hearty laugh. He looked troubled and bewildered. I saw the whole thing at once. “Never mind, Jackson,” said I, “you have been very ill,--as ill as it was possible to be to recover, and you remember nothing of that time; I suppose it seems like a long dream.” Such was precisely the case. Even the weeks when I had supposed him perfectly conscious, were all a blank; he had not the slightest recollection even of being brought in, and of nothing afterwards until the weeks during which I had been away.