"It is more to the point that I do just at present; the next eight hours will be likely to determine whether it has all been in vain. I will give you very careful directions, and I will be in twice during the night, although I am absolutely powerless now; can do no more than you will be able to do yourself. Meantime that friend of yours, McPherson I think his name is, will be on guard in the room next to this, ready to answer your lightest call. Indeed, you may open the door between the two rooms, but on no account speak or move unless absolutely necessary. This heavy sleep will grow lighter perhaps. Now, I want your fixed attention." Then followed very close and careful directions—what to do, and, above all, what not to do.
"Doctor, tell me one word more," said Theodore, quivering with suppressed emotion. "How do you think it will end?"
"I have hardly the faintest atom of hope," answered this honest, earnest man. "If, as I said, after midnight this sleep grows heavier, and you fail to catch the regular breathing, you may call the family. I think no human sound will disturb him after that; but if, on the contrary, the breathing grows steadier, and occasionally he moves a little, then I want you fairly to hold your breath, and then we may begin to hope, provided nothing shall occur to startle him; but I will be in by twelve or a little after."
The doctor went away with lightest tread, and Theodore opened the door of communication with the next room, met the kind, sympathetic eyes of Jim resting on him, returned his grave, silent bow, and felt sustained by his presence, then went back to his silent, solemn work. Close by the bedside, and thus, his head resting on one hand, his eyes fixed on the sleepless face, his heart going up to God in such wordless agony of entreaty as he had never felt before, passed the long, long hours. "The eyes of the Lord are in every place." How this watcher blessed God for that promise now! His, then, were not the only watcher's eyes bent on that white face; but He who knew the end from the beginning—aye, who held both beginning and end in the hollow of his hand, was watching too. More than that, the loving Redeemer, who had shed his blood for this poor man's soul, who loved it to-night with a love passing all human knowledge, was the other watcher. So Theodore waited and prayed, and the burden of his prayer was, "Lord, save him." Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock, still that solemn silence, still that wordless prayer. No doctor yet "I would not leave you if it were not absolute necessity," he had said. "Life or death in another family, with more for human knowledge to do than there is here, takes me away; but I will be back as soon after twelve as possible." Would he never come? It was ten minutes after twelve now, still no change—or, was there? Could he catch the breathing as distinctly now? Was the sleep heavier? Ought he to call the family? Oh, compassionate Savior! must they give him up? Had not his been the prayer of faith? And yet the breathing was certainly distinct, the pulse was steady—a half hour more, one or two little sighs had escaped the sleeper; other than that death-like stillness reigned. Was he better or worse? Oh for the doctor's coming! Suddenly Pliny gave a quick restless movement, then lay quiet; and then for the first time in long, long days, spoke in natural yet astonished tones:
"Theodore!" Then with a sudden nervous tremor and a startled tone: "What is it? What is it?"
Theodore knew that great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but his voice sounded natural and controlled as he stood with cup and spoon beside the bed.
"Hush, Pliny, you have had the headache, it is night. Swallow that and go to sleep."
Like a weary, submissive child Pliny obeyed; and Theodore, trembling in every limb so that he dropped rather than sat down in his chair, again watched and waited. A shadow fell between him and the light and his raised eyes met the doctor's. He had come in through the room where Jim was waiting. He came with noiseless tread to the bedside, and the instant his practiced eyes fell on the sleeping face they lighted up with a quick, glad look. Moving silently back to the door again he signaled Theodore to come to him, while as silently Jim slipped by and took his place. Rapidly the story of the night was rehearsed.
"Well," said the doctor, with smiling eyes, "I believe we have now to 'thank God and take courage.' Can you follow the rest of my instructions as implicitly as you have these? I would remove this strain on your nerves if I dared, but it is a fearfully important night, and you see I can trust you."
"I can do it," said Theodore, with a curious ring of joy in his softly voice. "I can do anything now."