and mental sympathies,--he brings a strong, breezy freshness of the
outer world with him into the monastic life of the sick-room. One does
not escape from being a patient because of being also a physician, and
for my part I am glad to confess my sense of enjoyment in such visits,
and how I have longed to keep my doctor at my side and to decoy him into
a protracted stay. The convalescence he observes is for him, too, a
pleasant thing. He has and should have pride in some distinct rescue, or
in the fact that he has been able to stand by, with little interference,
and see the disease run its normal course. I once watched a famous
surgeon just after he had done a life-saving operation by dim
candle-light. He stood smiling as the child's breath came back, and kept
nodding his head with pleasant sense of his own competence. He was most
like a Newfoundland dog I once had the luck to see pull out a small
child from the water and on to a raft. When we came up, the dog was
wagging his tail and standing beside the child with sense of
self-approval in every hair. The man wagged his head; the dog wagged his
tail. Each liked well what he had done.

Thus it is that these half-hours by the convalescent's couch are full of
subtle flattery for the doctor, and are apt to evolve the social best of
him, as he notes the daily gain in strength and color, and listens, a
tranquil despot, to one's pleas for this freedom or that indulgence. He
turns over your books, suggests others, and, trained by a thousand such
interviews, is likely enough a man interesting on many sides.

You selfishly enjoy his visit, not suspecting that you, too, are
ignorantly helpful. He has been in sadder homes to-day, has been sorely
tried, has had to tell grim truths, is tired, mind and body. The visit
he makes you is for him a pleasant oasis: not all convalescents are
agreeable. He goes away refreshed.