if he could. "Julius," said she, "will be here, and one or two others."

The mention of Julius as a visitor at his mother's house reminded him of his promise to that lady to find out how the young man was connected: engrossed as he had been with his strange case, he had almost forgotten the promise, and he had done nothing to fulfil it but tap ineffectually for admission to his friend's confidence. He therefore considered with some anxiety what he should do, for Lady Lefevre could on occasion be exacting and severe with her son. He concluded nothing could be done before dinner, but he went prepared to be questioned and perhaps rated. He was pleased to find that his mother seemed to have forgotten his promise as much as he had, and to see her in the best of spirits with a tableful of company.

"Oh, you have come," said she, presenting her cheek to her son; "I thought that after all you might be detained by that mysterious case you have at the hospital. Here's Dr. Rippon—and Julius too—dying to hear all about it;" but she gave no hint of the serious conversation which she said in her note she desired.

"Not I, Lady Lefevre," Julius protested. "I don't like medical revelations; they make me feel as if I were sitting at the confessional of mankind."

Noting by the way that Julius and his sister seemed much taken up with each other, and that Julius, while as fascinating as ever, and as ready and apt and intelligent of speech, seemed somewhat more chastened in manner and less effervescent in health,—like a fire of coal that has spent its gas and settled into a steady glow of heat,—he turned to Dr Rippon, a tall, thin old gentleman of over seventy, but who yet had a keen tongue, and a shrewd, critical eye. He had been an intimate friend of the elder Lefevre, and the son greeted him with respect and affection.

"Who is the gentleman?" said Dr Rippon, aside, when their greeting was over. "It does an old man's heart good to see and hear him," and the old doctor straightened himself. "But he'll get old too; that's the sad thing, from my point of view, that such beauty of person and swift intelligence of mind must grow old and withered, and slow and dull. What did you say his name is, John?"

"His name is Courtney—Julius Courtney," said Lefevre.

"Courtney," mused the old man, stroking his eyebrow; "I once knew a man of that name, or, rather, who took that name. I wonder if this friend of yours is of the same family; he is not unlike the man I knew."

"Oh," said Lefevre, immediately interested, "he may be of the same family, but I don't know anything of his relations. Who was the man, may I ask, that you knew?"

"Well," said the old gentleman, settling down to a story, which Lefevre was sure would be full of interest and contemporary allusion, for the old physician had in his time seen many men and many things—"it is a romantic story in its way."

He was on the point of beginning it when dinner was announced.

"I should like to hear the story when we return to the drawing-room," said Lefevre.

Over dinner, Lefevre was beset with inquiries about his mysterious case:—Was the young man better? Had he been very ill? Was he handsome? What had the foreign-looking stranger done to him? and for what purpose had he done it? These questions were mostly ignorant and thoughtless, and Lefevre either parried them or answered them with great reserve. When the ladies retired from table, however, more particular and curious queries were pressed upon him as to the real character of the outrage upon the young man. He replied that he had not yet discovered, though he believed he was getting "warm."

"Is it fair," said Julius, "to ask you in what direction you are looking for an explanation or revelation?"

"Oh, quite fair," said Lefevre, welcoming the question. "To put it in a word, I look to electricity,—animal electricity. I have been for some time working round, and I hope gradually getting nearer, a scientific secret of enormous—of transcendent value. Can you conceive, Julius, of a universal principle in Nature being got so under control as to form a universal basis of cure?"

"Can I conceive?" said Julius. "And is that electricity too?"

"I hope to find it is."

"Oh, how slow!" exclaimed Julius,—"oh, how slow you professional scientific men become! You begin to run on tram-lines, and you can't get off them! Why fix yourself to call this principle you're seeking for 'electricity'? It will probably restrict your inquiry, and hamper you in several ways. I would declare to every scientific man, 'Unless you become as a little child or a poet, you will discover no great truth!' Setting aside your bias towards what you call 'electricity,' you are really hoping to discover something that was discovered or divined thousands of years ago! Some have called it 'od'—an 'imponderable fluid'—as you know; you and others wish to call it 'electricity.' I prefer to call it 'the spirit of life,'—a name simple, dignified, and expressive!"

"It has the disadvantage of being poetic," said Dr Rippon, with grave irony; "and doctors don't like poetry mixed up with their science."

"It is poetic," admitted Julius, regarding the old doctor with interest, "and therefore it is intelligible. The spirit of life is electric and elective, and it is 'imponderable:' it can neither be weighed nor measured! It flows and thrills in the nerves of men and women, animals and plants, throughout the whole of Nature! It connects the whole round of the Cosmos by one glowing, teasing, agonising principle of being, and makes us and beasts and trees and flowers all kindred!"

"That is all very beautiful and fresh," said Lefevre, "but——"