laid himself down at Davie's feet, so, as he said, Davie might Jack at him and wake him, if he slept too soundly. Davie's fever is very severe. John sank into a dead sleep, which often precedes sickness, not to be aroused by the pressure of Davie's foot, but to writhe in convulsions of which he had no cognizance. I can hardly think of poor, honest and patient Davie's night in that little barn-manger, without getting into a fit myself—it seems so dreadful—suffering as he is, receiving no help himself, and seeing this large, stout man rolling upon his narrow bed, until at last he springs over upon the floor, bruising his nose and face, causing the blood to flow as though he was butchered outright. Now, when the excitement is too much for Davie, and the peril to John quite serious, some one of all the hard sleepers in those rooms wakes, gets up, and takes the matter in hand.
My visit finds Davie purple almost with fever, three men holding John so that he may not harm himself, and the room in the greatest confusion. John, it seems, cannot possibly live. My anxiety is to get Davie out of the room. I remember the two beds, one only of
