Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Mad.

In one of those vast piles of building a short distance down the main line of a great railway, a strange-looking elderly man, and one whose dress bespeaks the clergyman, are passing from ward to ward upon a visit. The man with them, in his quiet livery, raises the brass-chained key he carries to open lock after lock—one key for hundreds—and they pass on by sights of the most sorrowful; for they are amongst those of their fellows in whom the light of reason burns but dimly or is extinct. At last they stand by a window looking upon an extensive yard, where some fifty patients clothed in grey serge walk about for exercise—some hurriedly, some talking, some excited, others calm. And now one visitor lays a trembling hand upon his companion’s arm as, nearing the window, comes a portly, grey, smiling man, rolling solemnly along with imposing gait, wearing a stiff white-paper cravat, with a card snuff-box in his hand and a straw-plait chain meandering over his grey serge vest. Quiet and harmless, he goes about the yard feeling the pulses of his fellow-patients, and nods at them and smiles encouragement.

“Is there any prospect of his recovery?” says the clergyman to the warder, who is looking unconcernedly on.

“Whose, sir?” says the attendant. “His? the doctor’s? O no, sir, not the least. Stark mad!”

The End.