"I was one day called to the bedside of an old farmer who was dangerously ill," said the doctor to me. "On leaving the patient's room, I took his son aside and told him that it was useless for me to deceive him as to the state of his father, and that I very much feared he had not an hour to live, or, at the best, could not outlast the day."
"'Are you quite sure?' said the son, scrutinising me keenly.
"'I am only too sure,' I replied.
"I shook the young man's hands and drove away. I had scarcely been at home an hour, when a little cart drew up before my door. I saw the young farmer alight from it and, a minute later, he entered my consulting room. He held his cap in his hand, twisting it uneasily.
"'Is your father worse?' I asked.
"'No, doctor, just the same. I have come, because I had a little business in town ... and I wanted to ask you at the same time.... Well, I thought that perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me Father's certificate of death now.... As you say it is certain he won't pull through the day, I suppose you don't mind whether it is to-day or to-morrow that you give it me, and it will save me the trouble of coming in again on purpose.'
"It was all I could do to make the young fellow understand that I could not sign the certificate of death of a man who was still alive.
"The old farmer died next morning at nine o'clock.
"At ten, the son came to announce the news and to ask me for the certificate."