The whole house of Hétfalu was still in mourning. The doctor from town looked in every day. There were two invalids to be seen to. Young Széphalmi was able indeed to go about, but he was like a worm-eaten plant, there seemed to be but little life within him. Old Hétfalusy, on the other hand, had altogether succumbed to his woe, he had taken to his bed, and was frequently tormented by epileptic fits. The doctor, worthy Mr. Laurence Sarkantyús, regularly every day deposited his round-headed bamboo cane in the doorway, rubbed his short-cropped grey hair all over with his pocket handkerchief for a minute or two, felt the respective pulses, wrote out prescriptions for unguents and syrups; ordered baths, blisters, clysters, and cold douches--and all to no purpose, as both patients seemed to dwindle away more and more day by day. The only really doubtful point seemed to be, which of the two would bury the other? One day, when Dr. Sarkantyús was superintending the preparation of a hot bath, a light chaise drove into the courtyard of the castle, from which our unknown friend descended, dressed in a stylish black frock coat, and shod with elegant calfskin shoes. His long hair was combed back and smoothed down behind his ears on both sides, and he had an eyeglass cocked knowingly in one eye. Altogether he looked very different from what he was when we last saw him. His characteristic _sang froid_, that peculiar rigidity of the lips, that faint furrow in the middle of the forehead between the eyebrows, and the gravity of the somewhat languid face, made the metamorphosis complete. A savant, a scholar of practical experience, a cosmopolitan physician stands before us. He inquired for Mr. Széphalmi. The servants at once announced his arrival, and presently a broken-down, prematurely aged man appeared, with sunken cheeks, pale withered lips, and staring eyes starting from their sockets, and with but the ghost of their former brilliance and expressiveness. After the first greetings the stranger handed him a letter. Széphalmi broke it open and read it with an apology for so doing, and all the time his hands trembled. The letter was from his friend, Ambrose Ligety, who informed him that the bearer of the letter was a famous physician, who had just come from France, and cured maladies by means of magnetism. Would he allow this doctor to make experiments upon the old squire? He had reason to believe that such experiments would not be thrown away. Széphalmi sighed deeply, and conducted the stranger into the parlour where he beckoned him to take a seat. As yet they had not exchanged a single word professionally. Then Széphalmi went into an adjoining chamber, where he encountered Dr. Sarkantyús, and showed him the letter.