was startled by the sound of Derrick's voice falling with a singular distinctness upon the silence.
"Who is it that is standing there?" he said. "Do I know you? Yes—it is" but before he could finish, the momentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and he had wandered off again into low, disjointed murmurings.
It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he spoke. There was something he must do or say,—some decision he must reach. Must he give up? Could he give up? Perhaps he had better go away,—far away. Yes; he had better go. No,—he could not,—he must wait and think again. He was tired of thinking,—tired of reasoning and arguing with himself. Let it go for a few minutes. Give him just an hour of rest. He was full of pain; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, after a brief silence, he would begin again and go the weary round once more.
"He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late,—too much responsibility," said the medical man; "and it is going rather against him."
