"Glory be to the Lord, he's saved!" cried one of the waiters, a devout

Irishman.

"Ciel! he speaks! he moves! he lives! mon frère!" cried the little

Frenchwoman, going to him.

"Ah, murderers! bandits! you've scalded me to death! I'll have you all

before the commissaire!"

"He scolds! he threatens! he swears! he gets well! mon frère!" cried

the old woman, busying herself to change his clothes and put on his

flannel nightgown. They then tucked him up warmly in bed and put

bottles of hot water all around, to keep up this newly stimulated

circulation.

At that moment Dr. Rocke came in, put his hand into the bath-tub and

could scarcely repress a cry of pain and of horror--the water scalded

his fingers! What must it have done to the sick man?

"Good heavens, madam! I did not tell you to parboil your patient!"

exclaimed Traverse, speaking to the old woman. Traverse was shocked to

find how perilously his orders had been exceeded.

"Eh bien, Monsieur! he lives! he does well! voilà mon frère!" exclaimed

the little old woman.

It was true: the accidental "boiling bath," as it might almost be

called, had effected what perhaps no other means in the world could--a

restored circulation.

The disease was broken up, and the convalescence of the patient was

rapid. And as Traverse kept his own secret concerning the accidental

high temperature of that bath, which every one considered a fearful and

successful experiment, the fame of Dr. Rocke spread over the whole city

and country.

He would soon have made a fortune in New Orleans, had not the hand of

destiny beckoned him elsewhere. It happened thus: The old Frenchman whose life Traverse had, partly by accident and

partly by design, succeeded in saving, comprehended perfectly well how

narrow his escape from death had been, and attributed his restoration

solely to the genius, skill and boldness of his young physician, and

was grateful accordingly with all a Frenchman's noisy demonstration.

He called Traverse his friend, his deliverer, his son.

One day, as soon as he found himself strong enough to think of pursuing

his journey, he called his "son" into the room and explained to him

that he, Doctor Pierre St. Jean, was the proprietor of a private insane

asylum, very exclusive, very quiet, very aristocratic, indeed,

receiving none but patients of the highest rank; that this retreat was

situated on the wooded banks of a charming lake in one of the most

healthy and beautiful neighborhoods of East Feliciana; that he had

originally come down to the city to engage the services of some young

physician of talent as his assistant, and finally, that he would be

delighted, enraptured if "his deliverer, his friend, his son," would

accept the post.




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