The cut did not heal easily, and the finger became swollen and inflamed.

"I would have that finger off, Wood, if I were you," said one of the surgeons, a day or two afterwards, on seeing the state of the wound.

But the others laughed at the suggestion, and my father, at first inclined to submit to the amputation, was persuaded to "leave Nature alone." About the middle of August, 1852, he got wet through, riding on the top of an omnibus, and the wetting resulted in a severe cold, which "settled on his chest." One of the most eminent doctors of the day, as able as he was rough in manner, was called to see him.

He examined him carefully, sounded his lungs, and left the room followed by my mother.
"Well ?" she asked, scarcely anxious as to the answer, save as it might worry her husband to be kept idly at home.

"You must keep up his spirits," was the thoughtless answer.