not be counted on, at all--a force about which he knew virtually
nothing, acting upon a mechanism about which he knew little more, and
capable of interactions, reactions, and counteractions innumerable,
reversing and nullifying all past experience at a moment's notice--an
_unforeseen_ moment always.

He eyed this mystery, accordingly, with respect, lying in wait for
hints from it, and frequently reversing in his turn patiently prepared
plans of action, with a prompt speed impossible to a less supple
mind,--impossible at all, quite often, to any process of conscious
thought. To have these intuitions--that was his touch of femininity;
to risk largely upon them was the gambler in him; his swift
appropriation of the subject's temperament betrayed the artist in his
own; while the hard common sense which drew the rein on all these was
a legitimate inheritance--both national and personal. So was his
manner--not often extremely courteous and quite often extremely rude.
In this latter case his adorers called it "abstracted," while his
enemies qualified it as "ill-bred." But his voice, ordinarily abrupt
and harsh, could pass to exquisite intonations in the sick-room, and
there were moments when to anxious watchers therein, the man seemed
more than a man.

The affinity between physician and artist is one of the most curious
and suggestive. Every one will recall the famous surgeon-etcher, and
the distinguished specialist in nerves and novels. The Doctor's
artistic passion was for music. Unfortunately, it was not materially
portable, like a writing-pad, and there would have been something
unseemly in the spectacle of a physician fiddling in his carriage, so
he nursed this love in seclusion. His violin was his one indulgence,
and when he permitted himself to dream, it was of a life with music in