The Reverend Mr. Fairweather folded the note and put it into his pocket.
“I have been a good deal exercised in mind lately, myself,” he said.
The old Doctor looked at him through his spectacles, and said, in his usual professional tone,
“Put out your tongue.”
The minister obeyed him in that feeble way common with persons of weak character,—for people differ as much in their mode of performing this trifling act as Gideon's soldiers in their way of drinking at the brook. The Doctor took his hand and placed a finger mechanically on his wrist.
“It is more spiritual, I think, than bodily,” said the Reverend Mr. Fairweather.
“Is your appetite as good as usual?” the Doctor asked.
“Pretty good,” the minister answered; “but my sleep, my sleep, Doctor,—I am greatly troubled at night with lying awake and thinking of my future, I am not at ease in mind.”
He looked round at all the doors, to be sure they were shut, and moved his chair up close to the Doctor's.
“You do not know the mental trials I have been going through for the last few months.”