“Doctor,” said Richling at once, “the last time you said it was love-sickness; this time you say it’s excitement; at the bottom it isn’t either. Will you please tell me what it really is? What is this thing that puts me here on my back this way?”
“Richling,” replied the Doctor, slowly, “if I tell you the honest truth, it began in that prison.”
The patient knit his hands under his head and lay motionless and silent.
“Yes,” he said, after a time. And by and by again: “Yes; I feared as much. And can it be that my physical manhood is going to fail me at such a time as this?” He drew a long breath and turned restively in the bed.
“We’ll try to keep it from doing that,” replied the physician. “I’ve told you this, Richling, old fellow to impress upon you the necessity of keeping out of all this hubbub,—this night-marching and mass-meeting and exciting nonsense.”
“And am I always—always to be blown back—blown back this way?” said Richling, half to himself, half to his friend.
“There, now,” responded the Doctor, “just stop talking entirely. No, no; not always blown back. A sick man always thinks the present moment is the whole boundless future. Get well. And to that end possess your soul in patience. No newspapers. Read your Bible. It will calm you. I’ve been trying it myself.” His tone was full of cheer, but it was also so motherly and the touch so gentle with which he put back the sick man’s locks—as if they had been a lad’s—that Richling turned away his face with chagrin.
“Come!” said the Doctor, more sturdily, laying his hand on the patient’s shoulder. “You’ll not lie here more than a day or two. Before you know it summer will be gone, and you’ll be sending for Mary.”
Richling turned again, put out a parting hand, and smiled with new courage.