whether that cold-browed, scientific, quiet man had a right to keep a wife from her husband. I had heard so often, that, for a point of medical interest, any point new or curious in their science, they would not hesitate to destroy fifty lives to procure an elucidation, I determined at least to see. So I questioned Mark's nurse.
"Does he suffer much, nurse?"
"No, Ma'am; or, at least, he makes no complaint. Only just lies there, still and dreaming-like, and putting out his arms, and then folding them back round him again."
"Is he out of his mind at all?"
"God bless you! no. His eyes have no sparkle in them, and his voice is as little as a child's, only deeper, like the church-organ, you know, Ma'am, before they come to the loud part."
"But does he forget all his friends?"
"He never speaks about them, Ma'am, although the doctor is always a-mentioning them to him; but while they talk about them, he just lies there."
"About whom, then, does he talk?"
"O Ma'am, he hardly talks at all; only lies still, except his arms, and looks always like he was thinking of somewhat; and when he does speak, he never says but just only, 'Louise, Louise.'"
"Does he say 'Louise?' That is my name."
"Why, bless you, Ma'am, he never speaks nor thinks of any body but you. He calls always for you, and then, after he calls awhile, he seems to think as you have come, and he folds his arms in so—" here the nurse imitated the motion; "not folding them up as the gentlemen do, but kind of looking as if he were folding something else up into them; and then he keeps a-saying 'Louise, Louise,' in a little, low, soft voice, and by-and-by he falls asleep."
A new idea flashed upon me. Said I:
"Nurse, dear, they, the doctors, won't allow me to see him; are they cross with you? Let me see: how long have you been watching him?"
"Three nights now, Ma'am, on a stretch; but if I was ever so tired, Ma'am, I could n't let you go in."
