“My mind was so full of myself, doctor,” said he, “of all the consequences which had followed from my father's anger with me, that I had no thought of anything else till I entered the room where he was. Then, however, as I saw him propped up with pillows in a deep chair, his face pale, his eyes colorless, and his head swathed up in a bandage after leeching, my heart sickened, alike with sorrow and shame at my great selfishness. “I had been warned by Beattie on no account to let any show of feeling or emotion escape me, to be as cool and collected as possible, and in fact, he said, to behave as though I had seen him the day before. “'Leave the room, Poynder,' said he to his man, 'and suffer no one to knock at the door--mind, not even to knock--till I ring my bell.' He waited till the man withdrew, and then in a very gentle voice said, 'How are you, Tom? I can't give you my right hand,--the rebellious member has ceased to know me!' I thought I should choke as the words met me; I don't remember what I said, but I took my chair and sat down beside him. “'I thought you might have been too much agitated, Tom, but otherwise I should have wished to have had your advice along with Beattie. I believe, on the whole, however, he has treated me well.' “I assured him that none could have done more skilfully. “The skill of the doctor with an old patient is the skill of an architect with an old wall. He must not breach it, or it will tumble to pieces. “'Beattie is very able, sir,' said I. “'No man is able,' replied he, quickly, 'when the question is to repair the wastes of time and years. Draw that curtain, and let me look at you. No; stand yonder, where the light is stronger. What! is it my eyes deceive me,--is your hair white?' “'It has been so eight years, sir.' “'And I had not a gray hair till my seventy-second year,--not one. I told Beattie, t' other day, that the race of the strong was dying out. Good heavens, how old you look! Would any one believe in seeing us that you could be my son?' “'I feel perhaps even more than I look it, sir.' “'I could swear you did. You are the very stamp of those fellows who plead guilty--“Guilty, my Lord; we throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.” I don't know how the great judgment-seat regards these pleas,--with _me_ they meet only scorn. Give me the man who says, “Try me, test me.” Drop that curtain, and draw the screen across the fire. Speak lower, too, my dear,' said he, in a weak soft voice; 'you suffer yourself to grow excited, and you excite me.' “'I will be more cautious, sir,' said I. “'What are these drops he is giving me? They have an acrid sweet taste.' “'Aconite, sir; a weak solution.'