“‘Bless God, my dear boy! A wonderful miracle has been wrought! Medical science is all a humbug, a bauble, a farce, nonsense, moonshine; the profession all bosh! I would not give a nickel for any man’s opinion; I never will give another opinion; don’t ever ask me for an opinion; I won’t give it. I telegraphed you, 40 minutes ago, that Lottie was dead! I thought she was dead; we all thought so; medical science pronounced her dead. If I had not the evidence of my own eyes to the contrary, I should continue to say she was dead; but when I see those pretty eyes watching me, I am forced to halt. Lottie is alive! and says she is not going to die! Plaxico says she will not die; and if I had not vowed never to give another opinion, I should say so, too. Plaxico says she was in a trance, sometimes called an ecstasy--a sort of suspended animation. I say she was dead; he says he has seen many such cases--I say gammon--though, bear in mind, I venture no opinion. If the Mississippi river were to commence running north it would not surprise me; fact is, nothing could surprise me after what I have seen to-night. Lottie talks very strangely; says she was with you on the train to-night; what does it all mean? Plaxico contends that the soul was temporarily released from the body; I say bosh. Lottie is much better, mind clear, pulse regular, respiration good, symptoms all favorable, no pain. Bless God, my boy! but don’t construe this as an opinion from me. Be cautious when you arrive; Lottie must be prepared to receive you. The slightest shock might prove fatal; will meet you at front gate, and advise you how to act. Get control of your feelings before you see Lottie. DODSON.’ “Perhaps a man possessed of a vivid imagination might work his mind up to a point where he could make a pretty fair guess as to the joy that came to my crushed heart when I read that dispatch; but I know that no eloquent writer could set down anything approaching a correct description of it. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I was for a moment paralyzed with the excess of joy. I did not shout, scream, or move, but stood like one who had been stunned by a heavy blow, while I held my hand over my heart, pressing it very hard in order to still its violent throbbing. As soon as I recovered sufficiently to enable me to speak calmly I called to Wallingford, who was sitting there with his eyes closed, looking more like a block of white marble than a man. “‘Are you asleep, Harry?’ I inquired, as I laid my hand on his shoulder. “He gave a sudden start, then gazed a moment at me. “‘How can I sleep when the hot flames of torment are blazing in my bosom? Never shall I sleep any more; I have “murdered sleep,” and my sweet sister, too. My career will soon be closed, and the world will be rid of the vilest wretch that ever dwelt in it!’