“How that poor fellow in the next room groans, and how the sound of his moaning makes me long to hasten to his side and alleviate, if possible, the fever which they say is consuming him. Poor fellow, he was making money so fast, I hear, and hoarding it so carefully for his mother, he told his acquaintance, and now he is dying here alone, far from his mother, who would so gladly smooth his dying pillow. I saw him when they carried him through the hall on his arrival from the mountains, and something in the shape of his head and the way the hair curled around it, made me start, it was so like Robert’s. But the name, when I asked it, drove the hope away: _John Maxwell_, or _Max_, as he is generally called by those who know him best. He has been here for years, steadily accumulating money, and winning, as it would seem, scores of friends. Even the head chamber-maid, when she heard ‘young Max’ was ill, and was to be brought here, evinced more womanly interest than I supposed her capable of doing. He must be growing worse, his moanings increase so fast, and there seems to be a consultation going on within his room, while my name is spoken by some one, a friend too it would seem, for he says: “‘I wish you would try him at least. I have great faith in that mode of practice.’ “They are going to send for me; they are coming now to the door; they are saying to me: “‘Dr. West, will you step in and see what you think of poor Max’s case?’” CHAPTER XVIII. POOR MAX. That was what they called him at the hotel, which had been to him a home for years, and you would know by the intonation of their voices that he was a favorite with all. He was very sick, burning with fever, and talking at intervals of his mother, of Dick, and of another whose name the attendants could not well make out. It was of his sweetheart, the chamber-maid surmised, for in the pocket of his vest, which she hung away, she had found a daguerrotype of a young girl, whose marvellous beauty she had never seen excelled. “Poor Mr. Max! he must have loved her so much! I wonder where she is to-day?” she said, softly, as she continued to scan the lovely face smiling upon her from the worn, old-fashioned case. Alas! the original of that picture had for many a year been mouldering back to dust, and poor Max, who had loved and wronged her so much, was whispering her name in vain. He was growing worse, his nurse feared, and so at last she sent for Dr. West, of whose skill she had heard so much, and who in a few minutes stepped into the closely darkened room. “It seemed as if the light worried him,” the nurse said, in a whisper, as she saw the doctor glance towards the curtained windows. “Very likely; but I should like to see him for once,” was the doctor’s reply, as he took the hot hand in his.