Sometimes Harry would rise so far above his ailment as to lose the worst of the disfiguring traces which it was stamping on his outer man. He would be for days and weeks together the easily entertained, contented, manly lad of the past. He would be as simple and pleasant as an unspoilt schoolboy, as charmed to go or stay with Fan as in the days of their courtship, as united to Horry as when the brothers were loving children, as satisfied with chaffing Constable, and proving the life of his own circle, where animal spirits were in request, as if there did not exist for him more highly-flavoured attractions, more enthralling society—a coarse and powerful supplementary source of excitement. In these moods, when Harry was restored to his right mind, he was—without a grain of hypocrisy, so frank and free, so irresistibly helpful to children and old people, so easily served by servants, that he won, without fail, the heart of every stranger with whom he came in contact. He was the charming fellow-traveller, at each _table-d’hôte_ and in every steamboat and railway carriage, of hosts of unknown travellers, native and foreign. Harry was the great social conductor and bond of union between the whirling world around him and the rest of his party, who smiled cheerfully, and accepted with gay grumbling their share of the plague of his popularity. Then such a transformation came over the patient that clear brow and eyes, broad shoulders, active hands and feet and tongue grew as if they belonged to an entirely different person. Here was a man in the toils of raging fever, and possessed by its delusions, with the load of a nameless unbearable oppression on his lowering forehead, the gleam of a strange fire in his burning eyes, having his head bent, and his back slouched with the gait of an incorrigible vagabond, who must escape from the most sacred bonds and solemn obligations, and carry a distracted spirit ill at ease, and which cannot rest, into kindred storm and darkness. Why, the very muscular hands were straining and quivering to clutch the deadly foe, bound to overthrow the victim in the hateful encounter; the swift feet were stumbling in their frenzied haste to reach the goal from which there is seldom a return; the tongue spoke winning words no more, but stammered with the language of unreasoning fury and aimless invective.