certain I shall be successful. Will you allow me to try?"
She looked at me with wide-open, almost dazed eyes. All of a sudden I saw life and hope spring back to them.
"Yes, yes," she said; "I trust you—I believe in you. I consent—be the consequences what they may."
She rushed back to the nursery and began to make preparations. I went to fetch my instruments and Eliot got the chloroform.
With Eliot's aid, then, and with the assistance of the mother—who, with pale face and compressed lips, and with the nerve of a surgical nurse, rendered me all necessary help—I felt myself performing the operation. My hands were as cool and firm as iron. I had not a tremor; not a moment's hesitation. The trephining was performed successfully, and the clot which produced pressure on the vault of the brain (I was right after all as to the locality) successfully removed. The child sighed once or twice during the operation. I felt sure that he would do well. Then in my dream I saw myself returning to my bed, and worn out, I sank into the repose which I had duly earned.
I had no more dreams, and when I awoke at a late hour the following morning it was to see the winter's daylight struggling into the room. The instant I opened my eyes I remembered my dream, and wished heartily that it was true. I made a fervent resolve, even in the moment of awakening, to speak to Stanhope on the subject, and with his permission to telegraph for Fieldman without an hour's delay. Just then a voice spoke to me—I turned on my pillow with a start of surprise, for Eliot was standing by my bedside.
"Am I wanted?" I said. "Have I over-slept myself? Is the child worse?"
"I came to tell you that the child is decidedly better," he replied, "and Mrs. Stanhope is most anxious that you should not get up until you are really rested. I never saw a man, in all my life, look so worn out as you did when you went to bed."
"Well, you see, I had no sleep the night before," I answered, but Eliot's words surprised me—I thought them exaggerated, and hastened to add:—
"At any rate, I am perfectly rested now."
"Well, don't hurry up," he replied. "We'll send for you if there is the least occasion."
"What do you mean by the child being better?" I asked. "If so, if there is the least return of consciousness, I ought to be with the little fellow at once."
I sprang up in bed.
"Has the miserable life foretold by Parsons begun to return to the boy?" I asked. "In that case the improvement will be very, very gradual."
"What are you talking about, Halifax?" exclaimed Eliot. "The child is better, because, in my opinion, the operation has been a success."
For a moment I could find no words to speak. Then I gasped out in an incredulous, weak sort of voice, "What operation?"
"Surely, Halifax, you must have taken leave of your senses," replied Eliot, staring at me in astonishment, as well he might. "Don't you remember what you did last night?"
"I slept last night," I said, "I slept—and my God, I dreamed! But what of that?
"Don't you know what you did between the hours of two and four?"
Eliot looked at me now with undisguised alarm.
"It must have been about then I had my dream," I said, sinking back in a state of tremor on my pillow.
"What in the world are you thinking of, man?" said Eliot, almost angrily. "Wake at least now and listen to me. You must know perfectly well what you did how you occupied the time between the hours of two and four. You had no dream, Halifax; you were as wide awake, as cool, as collected as man could be. I never admired anyone in the whole course of my life as I admired you last night. You will be the first surgeon of your day. I never saw a surgeon, in hospital or out, with the skill, precision, and nerve that you have exhibited."
"I am speaking the truth, I assure you,' I answered, "when I tell you that I am only conscious of having had a very vivid dream during the night. Kindly put me out of suspense and tell me what I really did."
Eliot's look of admiration was now changed to one of pity. "Poor fellow!" I heard him mutter, "no wonder his brain should be a little dazed this morning. But to forget all about it; that is most extraordinary. I hope to goodness there is nothing seriously wrong with him!"
"For Heaven's sake, speak!" I cried. "What, in the name of all that is extraordinary, have I done?"
"You performed the operation which Parsons would not attempt on little Harold Stanhope."
"Never!" I exclaimed, springing to my feet.
