“Keep the women away, if you don’t want me to lose my senses,” he said to the man. “They start and turn pale or red every time I cough or speak in my sleep; and even when they pretend not to notice, I know they are watching me all the time. I don’t dare to groan, or sigh, or rave, though it would sometimes do me good. I want somebody by me who doesn’t care whether I live or die, but who just does what I ask him to. Let Louis open the door and sit up in the dicky. It’s what he was made for. He’s far more of a footman than you.” “I wouldn’t give either of you your salt as footman,” John retorted, smiling grimly. But he did not refuse to assume the post of nurse, and, having undertaken it, rendered himself so useful and unobtrusive that the others all gave way to him, and the sick man had no disposition to change again. He seemed a rather hard, dry man, but he was patient, and showed none of that obtrusive attention which is sometimes more troublesome to an invalid than neglect. If Lawrence groaned and tossed about, the attendant took no notice of him; if he said, “John, don’t leave me alone a minute,” the man would sit by his side all night, as untired, apparently, as a man of wood. So three nights passed, and still the invalid grew worse. “Wouldn’t you like to have me read some prayers to you, sir?” the watcher asked one night. “They might quiet you.” Lawrence broke out impatiently: “Do you think I am going to die? I am not. That is what the women are all crying about. Mrs. Ferrier came in to‐day, and told me she was having Masses said for me, and sprinkled me with holy water till I was drenched. And Bettie, when she sat here to‐day while you were away, rattled her beads and cried all the time, till I told her to get out of the room. That’s the way with some people. The minute a fellow is sick, they try their best to scare him to death. Why don’t you offer to read the paper to me, or tell me an amusing story? Give me the opiate now.” “The doctor said you were not to take another till twelve o’clock,” the attendant said. “I don’t care for the doctor’s orders. Give it to me now. I know best what I need.” “I believe you do,” John said quietly, and gave him the opiate. But in spite of care, and of a determination to recover, the illness grew upon him, till finally the physicians intimated that if he had any religious preparations to make, they had better not be delayed any longer, for his strength was rapidly wasting, and they could not promise that the result would not be fatal. Mrs. Ferrier went in great distress to F. Chevreuse.