in mind and body, quite feeble, and of little endurance. Besides, when
once started and warmed to his subject--and very little information
could be gained till he was so started--he would no doubt be garrulous.

Doctor Castleton and I started for town at a brisk trot, the doctor
having parted from Bainbridge in the best of humors. His last words,
shouted back as we drove off, were, "Don't forget the calomel at
nine-thirty, doctor; and add to the treatment whatever you may think
best. I trust you implicitly. Send me word if you need help."

Strange man! So pleasant, and so harsh; so grand, and so ignoble; so
great, and so small; so broad, and so narrow; so kind, and so unkind. As
my mind ran along in this channel, I wondered how one and the same man
could express the views that he had proclaimed in connection with his
medical association, and yet speak of life and death as he had spoken to
me on the day preceding. What did he really believe? Could the
actor-temperament, displaying itself on most occasions, in connection
with a display at times of his natural self, as we say, account for all
his eccentricities?

As we fairly flew along the forest road, nearing our destination by a
mile in each three minutes, we came to the only hill on the entire route
which was considerable, both in extent and in degree of gradient. Doctor
Castleton allowed the gait of his horses to slacken into a slow walk;
and--ever nervous, ever active--he reached into the side pocket of his
linen duster, and drew forth a small book, apparently fresh from the
publisher.

"'The Mistakes of the Gods, and Other Lectures,'" he said, looking at
the back of the volume, and reading its title. "Ah, 'The Gods.' The