life, with a dangerous illness. Elinor nursed him with the greatest
care, and prescribed for him as well as she could; for he would not
suffer a doctor to enter the house. But finding that the disorder did
not yield to her remedies, but rather that he grew daily worse, she
privately sent for the doctor. When he arrived, Mr. Hurdlestone ordered
him out of his room, and nearly exhausted what little strength he still
possessed, in accusing Elinor of entering into a conspiracy with Mr.
Moore to kill him, and, as the doctor happened to be a widower, to marry
him after his death, and share the spoils between them.

"Your husband, madam, is mad--as mad as a March hare," said Mr. Moore,
as he descended the stairs. "He is, however, in a very dangerous state,
it is doubtful if he ever recovers."

"And what can be done for him?"

"Nothing in his present humor without you have him treated as a maniac,
which, if I were in your case and in your situation, I most certainly
would do."

"Oh, no, no! there is something dreadful in such a charge coming from a
wife, though he often appears to me scarcely accountable for his
actions; but what can I give him to allay this dreadful fever?"

"I will write you a prescription." This the doctor did on the back of a
letter with his pencil, for Elinor could not furnish him with a scrap of
paper.

"You must send this to the apothecary. He will make it up."