ngs as my recovery, the weather, the condition
of affairs in the parish and so forth. I noticed that though the
doctor's eyes often rested with an almost glaring expression of scrutiny
or of surprise upon me, he made no remark on the change of my
appearance. Nor did I on the change of his, which was startling, and
suggested I know not what of sorrow and of the attempt to kill it with
evil weapons. The healthy brick-red of his complexion was now become
scarlet and full of heat; his mouth worked loosely while he talked; the
flesh of his cheeks was puffed and wrinkled; his eyes had the clouded
and yet fierce aspect of the drunkard. But, absurdly enough, what most
struck me in him was his abstinence from an accustomed act. He drank
his tea, but he ate no hot cakes. This was a departure from an
established, if trifling custom of many years' standing, and worked on
my imaginative conception of what the doctor now was more than would, at
the first blush, appear likely, or even possible. Instead of, as of old,
feeling myself on the worm level in his presence, I was filled with a
sense of pity, as I looked upon him and wondered what subtle process of
mental or physical development or retrogression had wrought this dreary
change. Presently, while I wondered, he put his cup down with an awkward
and errant hand that set it swaying and clattering in the tray, and said
abruptly:--

"And what have you come for, Alistair, eh? what have you come for? To go
on with what you've begun? Well, well, lad, I'm ready for you; I'm ready
now."

His voice was full of timorous irritation, his manner of pitiable
distress.

"I've thought it out, I've thought it all out," he continued; "and I can
combat you, I can combat you, Alistair, wherever you've got your
fever-mind from and your fever-tongue."

I knew what he meant, and suddenly I knew, too, why I had wanted so
eagerly to come to the Manse. My instinct of pity and of sympathy died
softly away. My new instinct of cruel rapture in the ruthless exercise
of my--shall I call them fever-powers then?--woke, dawned to sunrise.
And Doctor Wedderburn and I fell forthwith into an animated theological
discussion. He was desperately nervous, desperately ill at ease. His
argumentative struggles were those of a drowning man positively
convinced--note this,--that he would drown, that no human or divine aid
could save him. There was, too, a strong hint of personal anger in his
manner, which was strictly und