“You know me, Charley, boy, don't you?” said he, softly. “Yes,” muttered he, in a weak tone. “Who am I, Charley? Tell me who is speaking to you.” “Yes,” said he again. “Poor fellow!” Bighed Harcourt, “he does _not_ know me!” “Where's the pain?” asked Billy, suddenly. The boy placed his hand on his forehead, and then on his temples. “Look up! look at _me!_” said Billy. “Ay, there it is! the pupil does not contract,--there's mischief in the brain. He wants to say something to you, sir,” said he to Harcourt; “he's makin' signs to you to stoop down.” Harcourt put his ear close to the sick boy's lips, and listened. “No, my dear child, of course not,” said he, after a pause. “You shall remain here, and I will stay with you too. In a few days your father will come--” A wild yell, a shriek that made the cabin ring, now broke from the boy, followed by another, and then a third; and then with a spring he arose from the bed, and tried to escape. Weak and exhausted as he was, such was the strength supplied by fever, it was all that they could do to subdue him and replace him in the bed; violent convulsions followed this severe access, and it was not till after hours of intense suffering that he calmed down again and seemed to slumber. “There's more than we know of here, Colonel,” said Billy, as he drew him to one side. “There's moral causes as well as malady at work.” “There may be, but I know nothing of them,” said Harcourt; and in the frank air of the speaker the other did not hesitate to repose his trust. “If we hope to save him, we ought to find out where the mischief lies,” said Billy; “for, if ye remark, his ravin' is always upon one subject; he never wanders from that.” “He has a dread of home. Some altercation with his father has, doubtless, impressed him with this notion.” “Ah, that isn't enough, we must go 'deeper; we want a clew to the part of the brain engaged. Meanwhile, here's at him, with the antiphlogistic touch;” and he opened his lancet-case, and tucked up his cuffs. “Houlde the basin, Biddy.” “There, Harvey himself couldn't do it nater than that. It's an elegant study to be feelin' a pulse while the blood is flowin'. It comes at first like a dammed-up cataract, a regular out-pouring, just as a young girl would tell her love, all wild and tumultuous; then, after a time, she gets more temperate, the feelings are relieved, and the ardor is moderated, till at last, wearied and worn out, the heart seems to ask for rest; and then ye'll remark a settled faint smile coming over the lips, and a clammy coldness in the face.” “He's fainting, sir,” broke in Biddy. “He is, ma'am, and it's myself done it,” said Billy. “Oh, dear, oh, dear! If we could only do with the moral heart what we can with the raal physical one, what wonderful poets we 'd be!” “What hopes have you?” whispered Harcourt.