ny poor fellows
who called to inquire after him and the result of their supposed
success. He never left the house, but either watched by the bedside, or
waited in the next room. Often would the patient get out of bed, driven
by the longing for drink or for opium, gnawing him through all the
hallucinations of delirium; but he was weak, and therefore manageable.
If in any lucid moments he thought where he was, he no doubt supposed
that he was in a hospital, and probably had sense enough to understand
that it was of no use to attempt to get his own way there. He was soon
much worn, and his limbs trembled greatly. It was absolutely necessary
to give him stimulants, or he would have died, but Robert reduced them
gradually as he recovered strength.

But there was an infinite work to be done beyond even curing him of
his evil habits. To keep him from strong drink and opium, even till the
craving after them was gone, would be but the capturing of the merest
outwork of the enemy's castle. He must be made such that, even if the
longing should return with tenfold force, and all the means for its
gratification should lie within the reach of his outstretched hand, he
would not touch them. God only was able to do that for him. He would do
all that he knew how to do, and God would not fail of his part. For this
he had raised him up; to this he had called him; for this work he had
educated him, made him a physician, given him money, time, the love and
aid of his fellows, and, beyond all, a rich energy of hope and faith in
his heart, emboldening him to attempt whatever his hand found to do.

CHAPTER XIII. ANDREW REBELS.

As Andrew Falconer grew better, the longing of his mind after former
excitement and former oblivion, roused and kept alive the longing of his
body, until at length his thoughts dwelt upon nothing but his diseased
cravings. His whole imagination, naturally not a feeble one, was
concentrated on the delights in store for him as soon as he was well
enough to be his own master, as he phrased it, once more. He soon began
to see that, if he was in a hospital, it must be a private one, and at
last, irresolute as he was both from character and illness, made up his
mind to demand his liberty. He sat by his bedroom fire one afternoon,
for he needed much artificial warmth. The shades of evening were
thickening the air. He had just had one of his frequent meals, and was
gazing, as he often did, into the glowing coals. Robert