must run by your way."

"The Brent--you know that brook? Ah, you should hear my poor patient
talk of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it,--you would not
know whether to laugh or cry. The first day he was brought down to the
place, he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old
deluding demon,--a one-eyed perch."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Leonard, "are you speaking of John Burley?"

"To be sure, that is his name,--John Burley."

"Oh, has it come to this? Cure him, save him, if it be in human power.
For the last two years I have sought his trace everywhere, and in vain,
the moment I had money of my own, a home of my own. Poor, erring,
glorious Burley! Take me to him. Did you say there was no hope?"

"I did not say that," replied the doctor. "But art can only assist
Nature; and though Nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do to
her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled, and
so do I. You must tell me another time how you came to know Burley, for
here we are at the house, and I see him at the window looking out for
me."

The doctor opened the garden gate of the quiet cottage to which poor
Burley had fled from the pure presence of Leonard's child-angel. And
with heavy step, and heavy heart, Leonard mournfully followed, to behold
the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and "set the table in a
roar." Alas, poor Yorick!