t his attempts to restore
her had operated so sluggishly as only now to have made themselves felt?
Barnet laid his hand upon her chest, and fancied that ever and anon a
faint flutter of palpitation, gentle as that of a butterfly's wing,
disturbed the stillness there--ceasing for a time, then struggling to go
on, then breaking down in weakness and ceasing again.

Barnet's mother had been an active practitioner of the healing art among
her poorer neighbours, and her inspirations had all been derived from an
octavo volume of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was lying, as it
had lain for many years, on a shelf in Barnet's dressing-room. He
hastily fetched it, and there read under the head 'Drowning:'-

'Exertions for the recovery of any person who has not been immersed
for a longer period than half-an-hour should be continued for at least
four hours, as there have been many cases in which returning life has
made itself visible even after a longer interval.

'Should, however, a weak action of any of the organs show itself when
the case seems almost hopeless, our efforts must be redoubled; the
feeble spark in this case requires to be solicited; it will certainly
disappear under a relaxation of labour.'

Barnet looked at his watch; it was now barely two hours and a half from
the time when he had first heard of the accident. He threw aside the
book and turned quickly to reach a stimulant which had previously been
used. Pulling up the blind for more light, his eye glanced out of the
window. There he saw that red chimney still smoking cheerily, and that
roof, and through the roof that somebody. His mechanical movements
stopped, his hand remained on the blind-cord, and he seemed to become
breathless, as if he had suddenly found himself treading a high rope.

While he stood a sparrow lighted on the windowsill, saw him, and flew
away. Next a man and a dog walked over one of the green hills which
bulged above the roofs of the town. But Barnet took no notice.

We may wonder what were the exact images that passed through his mind
during those minutes of gazing upon Lucy Savile's house, the sparrow, the
man and the dog, and Lucy Savile's house again. There are honest men who
will not admit to their thoughts, even as idle hypotheses, views of the
future that assume as done a deed which they would recoil from doing; and
there are other honest men for whom morality ends at the surface of their
ow