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HIS HEALTH.

My brother looked so pale and fragile that at times it was uncertain whether he had many days to live. My mother thought he was either consumptive or afflicted with heart disease. The fact is he died years later of a chill on the kidneys. But at that time everyone felt that he was very ill indeed.

Whether St. Amer was conscious of these fears and influenced by them, or whether he actually did suffer from pains and aches, is hard to say. Though no disease could be located there were moments when he seemed a prey to some painful melody. A private doctor was always at hand in case of emergency. These doctors served two purposes -- to take care of my brother and to act as mediums to my mother. Whether this was a point made when engaging them I cannot say but such was always their double role. My brother was strongly averse to doctors and his own private one could only serve him at moments of crisis. These attacks of pain were always very sudden, and consequently occurred in the most unexpected places.

It was indeed a terrible experience when, at a restaurant or a station, with the train coming in, St. Amer would show great agitation, clutched his chest, and cry out for a chair. Then and there, wherever it might happen to be -- often enough in a crowd of people -- he would kneel on the ground, lean his chest on the seat of the chair, and begin groaning loudly. His appearance, attitude and groaning would cause a greater crowd to collect. It was then that the doctor would come forward, snap off the end of a glass tube, and roll it in cotton-wool. The invalid eagerly seizing it would sniff the contents until relieved. Slowly we would get him up again, make our way through the crowd and continue the journey thus interrupted.