"That horrible torture is beginning again. You must give me some of the opiate."
Keith rose immediately, took the smaller bottle of medicine, went into the anteroom, and poured out very carefully a teaspoonful, which he brought to Aylmer. Aylmer took it and lay still. In about a quarter of an hour he called out,—-
"Keith, are you there?"
"Yes; what's up?"
"The pain is no better. It grows intolerable—I cannot endure it. I must have a second dose at once. Make it a little larger—do, like a good fellow—a dessertspoonful."
"I can't possibly do it, Aylmer. The doctor said that you were not to have this special medicine oftener than once an hour, and it is not a quarter of an hour since you had the last dose. You shall have a second after an hour is up. Now stay quite still, and then perhaps the pain will go off!"
Aylmer lay as still as he could, but the dew on his forehead and the pallor of his drawn face showed the agony through which he was living. His restless hands began plucking at the bed-clothes. Keith suddenly took one, and imprisoned it in both his own.
"My mother used to say that I had the hand or a mesmerist," he said. "Let me mesmerize you now. I will that pain goes."
Aylmer smiled. His blue eyes grew full of gratitude.
"There never was any one like you, Keith, old man," he said. "Whatever happens, I'd like you to know—I'd like you to know what I feel—I mean my gratitude to you. Keith, I believe I'd have gone to the dogs but for you, old fellow. But now—"