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and, seizing his hand, reproved him passionately for thus dying without one word of farewell. She took his head between her hands, and, pressing it wildly, looked at him with a fixed and halfdemented scrutiny. The eyelids of the deceased' were seen to quiver; the eyes half opened; he was saved! He had succeeded in putting his latent self in communication with the outer world; and what he himself had begun, the doctors completed. Here was a man who, but for his sister's delay, would have been buried alive! Bruhier's story is, in fact, the confession of Wenzel. It is the story of a patient describing his horror on finding himself a dead man ; and, without much confusion of terms, it might fairly be called the Confessions of a Corpse.' Dr. Gandolfi asserts that many such cases have been recorded in various parts of Europe, and that in most instances the cases have been 'proved and authenticated.' Gandolfi is an authority; and all persons of a quibbling or sceptical nature would do well to consider the matter thoroughly before condemning his evidence.

But it is needless to prolong the list of examples. Enough has been said to show the wickedness of hasty funerals—and the necessity of establishing a proper system of tests. But these tests, so long expected, are not forthcoming. Many physicians are, indeed, of opinion that no such system is obtainable in the present state of medical science. There are, they affirm, a great many ways of proving death, if sufficient time be allowed for experiments; but during the experiments, or before the experiments have begun, the supposed corpse may, they declare, pass from apparent to real death, and thus, without sign or warning, frustrate all inquiry. Celebrated physicians cannot be at the deathbeds of all sick persons. The poor, and even the rich, must oftentimes content themselves with the services of doctors who are not famous either for learning or intuition; and the medicines and appliances by which distinguished physicians might succeed in testing the existence of life, in persons suffering from trance, would, in the case of poor people, cost too much; and no one is willing to guarantee their final success. For it is important to bear this point in mind:-it is one thing to certify that a corpse' is not really dead; it is another thing to revive that corpse after the inner life-latent and slow to assert itself has been properly recognised. No; what is wanted is a simple test, and not a complicated test, or a complicated series of tests, which would be out of the reach of the poor, and beyond the power of inexperienced or badly-paid doctors. Let us have that test as soon as possible! No doctor deems it an impossibility. It is a matter of difficulty, and that is all. But difficulties as great as, or greater than, this have been mastered over and over again by modern science.

G. ERIC MACKAY.

104

By Proxy.

BY JAMES PAYN.

CHAPTER XLI.

A SECOND SUITOR.

Ir was not Nelly Conway's way to make much of any accident that befell her, but out of gratitude to Mr. Pearson she felt compelled to tell Mrs. Wardlaw how near she had been to Death, as well as to whom she owed her escape from it. That good lady was so horrified by the mere fact, that it was fortunate the narrator did not use any arts of embellishment. 'I should never, never have forgiven myself, dear Nelly, if anything had happened to you.'

'Why not, dear Mrs. Wardlaw? It would not have been your fault.'

'Yes, it would; for ever letting you go out of my sight. Does not this show how totally unfit you are to take care of yourself? And yet you used to talk of going away from us, and living all alone in London.'

That used to talk' was quite a Machiavellian touch: it suggested that this wild resolution of Nelly's had been given up ever so long ago, instead of being a project that pressed itself upon her daily, as Mrs. Wardlaw was well aware, though her guest had ceased to talk of it of late, as is often the case when we are on the brink of action.

'I can't be caught by the tide in London,' urged Nelly, unless I choose my lodgings down at Bankside.' The periodical inundations of the Thames, according to the last aquatic information, baving just taken place in that locality.

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This bantering rejoinder drew no answering smile from Mrs. Wardlaw. There was nothing to laugh at,' thought that kind old soul, in anything which had reference to Nelly's threatened departure.

'Well, at all events, it was not Mr. Pearson's fault that I was nearly drowned, but quite the reverse; so I hope you will be very kind to him,' said Nelly softly. He is an artist, but not, I fancy, very prosperous.'

'Not likely to be, my dear,' answered her hostess drily. 'Drawing and painting are all very well for those who can afford them, but as professions—-—'

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