"Mr. Fenton," said he, "did you ever see a medulla oblongata?" "Well, I seen a good many garters," replied the woodsman, 'in the stores, an' I guess they was mostly oblong." "Did you ever see a solar plexus?" inquired the Doctor, severely. "Dozens of 'em. I allers pick a few in the fall, but I don't make much use of 'em." "Perhaps you've seen a pineal gland," suggested the disgusted Doctor. "I make 'em," responded Jim. "I whittle 'em out evenin's, ye know." "If you were in one of these cells," said the Doctor, "I should think you were as mad as a March hare." At this moment the Doctor's attention was called to a few harmless patients who thronged toward him as soon as they learned that he was in the building, begging for medicine; for if there is anything that a pauper takes supreme delight in it is drugs. Passing along with them to a little lobby, where he could inspect them more conveniently, he left Jim behind, as that personage did not prove to be so interesting and impressible as he had hoped. Jim watched him as he moved away, with a quiet chuckle, and then turned to pursue his investigations. The next cell he encountered held the man he was looking for. Sitting in the straw, talking to himself or some imaginary companion, he saw his old friend. It took him a full minute to realize that the gentle sportsman, the true Christian, the delicate man, the delightful companion, was there before him, a wreck--cast out from among his fellows, confined in a noisome cell, and hopelessly given over to his vagrant fancies and the tender mercies of Thomas Buffum. When the memory of what Paul Benedict had been to him, at one period of his life, came to Jim, with the full realization of his present misery and degradation, the strong man wept like a child. He drew an old silk handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose as if it had been a trumpet, and then slipped up to the cell and said, softly: "Paul Benedict, give us your benediction." "Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly. "Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering. "Yes, Mr. Benedict, I'm the same rough old fellow. How fare ye?" "I'm miserable," replied the man. "Well, ye don't look as ef ye felt fust-rate. How did ye git in here?" "Oh, I was damned when I died. It's all right, I know; but it's terrible." "Why, ye don't think ye're in hell, do ye?" inquired Jim. "Don't you see?" inquired the wretch, looking around him. "Oh, yes; I see! I guess you're right," said Jim, falling in with his fancy. "But where did you come from, Jim? I never heard that you were dead." "Yes; I'm jest as dead as you be." "Well, what did you come here for?" "Oh, I thought I'd call round," replied Jim carelessly. "Did you come from Abraham's bosom?" inquired Mr. Benedict eagerly. "Straight." "I can't think why you should come to see me, into such a place as this!" said Benedict, wonderingly. "Oh, I got kind o' oneasy. Don't have much to do over there, ye know." "How did you get across the gulf?"