THE morning sunlight shining in at a badly curtained window; a clumsy wooden bed, with big twisted posts that reached to the ceiling; on one side of the bed, my mother's welcome face; on the other side, an elderly gentleman unremembered by me at that moment--such were the objects that presented themselves to my view, when I first consciously returned to the world that we live in. "Look, doctor, look! He has come to his senses at last." "Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup of this." My mother was rejoicing over me on one side of the bed; and the unknown gentleman, addressed as "doctor," was offering me a spoonful of whisky-and-water on the other. He called it the "elixir of life"; and he bid me remark (speaking in a strong Scotch accent) that he tasted it himself to show he was in earnest. The stimulant did its good work. My head felt less giddy, my mind became clearer. I could speak collectedly to my mother; I could vaguely recall the more marked events of the previous evening. A minute or two more, and the image of the person in whom those events had all centered became a living image in my memory. I tried to raise myself in the bed; I asked, impatiently, "Where is she?" The doctor produced another spoonful of the elixir of life, and gravely repeated his first address to me. "Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup of this." I persisted in repeating my question: "Where is she?" The doctor persisted in repeating his formula: "Take a sup of this." I was too weak to contest the matter; I obeyed. My medical attendant nodded across the bed to my mother, and said, "Now, he'll do." My mother had some compassion on me. She relieved my anxiety in these plain words: "The lady has quite recovered, George, thanks to the doctor here." I looked at my professional colleague with a new interest. He was the legitimate fountainhead of the information that I was dying to have poured into my mind. "How did you revive her?" I asked. "Where is she now?" The doctor held up his hand, warning me to stop. "We shall do well, sir, if we proceed systematically," he began, in a very positive manner. "You will understand, that every time you open your mouth, it will be to take a sup of this, and not to speak. I shall tell you, in due course, and the good lady, your mother, will tell you, all that you have any need to know. As I happen to have been first on what you may call the scene of action, it stands in the fit order of things that I should speak first. You will just permit me to mix a little more of the elixir of life, and then, as the poet says, my plain unvarnished tale I shall deliver." So he spoke, pronouncing in his strong Scotch accent the most carefully selected English I had ever heard. A hard-headed, square-shouldered, pertinaciously self-willed man--it was plainly useless to contend with him. I turned to my mother's gentle face for encouragement; and I let my doctor have his own way.