One characteristic which never failed to impress those who met him was his reserve. It was the quality of it which was so striking. It was not a reserve which was raised of aloofness; there was no particle of that, no self-esteem, no egoism--common builders of reserve--yet on the other hand it was not the retreat of shyness as many might have thought, though out of it a certain constraint was undoubtedly born. One might almost say it was a result rather than a reserve; the result of a something hard at work within; a preoccupying something; a gestating something, the offspring of which was--well--what _he_ was. Another quality which leaves itself deep carved in the memory of these early days of acquaintance was the quiet, unconscious respect he seemed, with equal unconsciousness, to inspire in all about him; and more, even in those who in kinship and friendship were closest to him, and with a constancy which never wavered. In those days only the more evident traits of his character came home to me. It was rather by feeling, by intuition, that he impressed me. I had no measure of my own with which to estimate his mental attainments. I had a kind of awe, of hero-worship in knowing him, which left me reticent in the discussion of any medical matters with him--so I usually stuck in those days to safer subjects. It was not until two or three years later, after I was graduated, that I had any association of a professional nature with him. It was near the end of the summer, up in the mountains. An elderly lady, a member of a well-known family, was suddenly taken ill. I was hurriedly called to see her, and on arriving at her cottage was told that Dr. Janeway had been sent for also and would be there soon; but they were anxious to have me go to the patient at once. The state of excitement into which this, my first professional call, threw me, was in itself enough without the crushing thought of what the great man might think of me, a then full-fledged M.D. I was ushered into the bedroom where she lay, totally unconscious and breathing heavily. As I hastened to the house, I had been formulating in my mind just the questions I should put to her--for I had learned in the medical school how to take a careful history--and there she lay without speech, without hearing, and without response. As I stood looking at her I could feel, rather than see, the family anxiously crowding about the doorway, waiting for me to tell them just what the trouble was, how serious it was, what were the chances of her recovery. At that moment I wondered why I had ever thought of studying medicine. I sat down by the bedside and felt her pulse. Why was she unconscious? I tried to think of all the things which caused a state of unconsciousness. Suppose she should die before I could think of what the trouble was, and before I could do anything to save her life! The thought was staggering! And then as I looked down at the patient again