physician, methinks, who has no such mischief within his own experience)
never weigh with deadly weight on any man's conscience. Something must be
risked in the cause of science, and in desperate cases something must be
risked for the patient's self. Septimius, much as he loved life, would not
have hesitated to put his own life to the same risk that he had imposed on
Aunt Keziah; or, if he did hesitate, it would have been only because, if
the experiment turned out disastrously in his own person, he would not be
in a position to make another and more successful trial; whereas, by
trying it on others, the man of science still reserves himself for new
efforts, and does not put all the hopes of the world, so far as involved
in his success, on one cast of the die.

By and by he met Sibyl Dacy, who had ascended the hill, as was usual with
her, at sunset, and came towards him, gazing earnestly in his face.

"They tell me poor Aunt Keziah is no more," said she.

"She is dead," said Septimius.

"The flower is a very famous medicine," said the girl, "but everything
depends on its being applied in the proper way."

"Do you know the way, then?" asked Septimius.

"No; you should ask Doctor Portsoaken about that," said Sibyl.

Doctor Portsoaken! And so he should consult him. That eminent chemist and
scientific man had evidently heard of the recipe, and at all events would
be acquainted with the best methods of getting the virtues out of flowers
and herbs, some of which, Septimius had read enough to know, were poison