his poet's heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have
resigned all he had won--independence, fame, all--to feel again the clasp
of that tender hand, again to be the sole protector of that gentle life.

The doctor's voice broke on his revery. "I am going to see a very
interesting patient,--coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir,--man of
great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can't do him much
good, and he does me a great deal of harm."

"How harm?" asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.

"Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water; very pathetic case,--
grand creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over by the
allopathists, and in a high state of delirium tremens, restored him for a
time, took a great liking to him,--could not help it,--swallowed a great
many globules to harden myself against him, would not do, brought him
over to England with the other patients, who all pay me well (except
Captain Higginbotham). But this poor fellow pays me nothing,--costs me a
great deal in time and turnpikes, and board and lodging. Thank Heaven,
I'm a single man, and can afford it! My poy, I would let all the other
patients go to the allopathists if I could but save this poor, big,
penniless, princely fellow. But what can one do with a stomach that has
not a rag of its coats left? Stop" (the doctor pulled the check-string).
"This is the stile. I get out here and go across the fields."

That stile, those fields--with what distinctness Leonard remembered them.
Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be, his child-angel?

"I will go with you, if you permit," said he to the good doctor. "And
while you pay your visit, I will saunter by a little brook that I think