back from that walk I was in such hot haste for
such silent news as I might reasonably hope to
gain, that I did not even stay to light my candle,
but felt my way as well as I could across the
room, and stationed myself at the window.

At first I thought that there were no shadows
at all on the white glaring blind, except those
of the poor bits of curtain and of the spread-
out fuchsia before mentioned, but by-and-by,
noticing a small and continually moving shadow
mixed up with that of the curtain, and observing
that it rose and fell regularly and quickly, I
presently connected it with another mass of
shade a little above it, and arrived at the conclusion
that this last was thrown by a woman's head,
and by the moving shadow by her hand, as it rose
and fell in the action of working with the needle.
It was not long before I found out that my
hypothesis was well grounded; for a little while
the shadow of the hand was still and that
of the head was raised, as if the person whose
silhouette lay thus upon the blind was in
the act of listening—and then it rose, and
I saw the well-known figure of the engraver's
wife pass the light, and knew that she had moved
towards that quarter of the room in which I had
made up my mind that the bed with the sick
man in it was placed.

During the greater part of that evening, as I
watched, and my occupations were frequently
interrupted that I might do so, I made out no
shadow but that which I have just mentioned.
But, at about nine o'clock, I saw another
shadow pass before the blind, and as it was that
of a man, I had for a moment the hope that it
was cast by the invalid. It was only for a
moment, another glance showed me that this person
wore no beard, and that there was greater bulk
of figure than would have been cast by the poor
engraver. I soon concluded that it was the
doctor; and if I had any doubt on this subject it
was removed when I presently observed the
workman-like angle of elbow made by the
shadow as it stood before the light, pouring
something into what I suppose, from its size,
must have been a teacup.

Twice a day, then. He was ill enough for
the doctor to come to him twice a day.

My determination was taken as I made that
reflection. I had got wrought up to a great
state of interest and suspense about this case
which I could hardly explain to myself. I felt a
strange longing to know more of it, and I came
to the resolution—it was like what might have
been expected of a man half-cracked with living
alone—that I would go out then and there,
waylay the doctor as he came away from his
patient, and ask him all about it.

I had lost some time in reflection, and when
I looked hastily across before leaving my room
I did not see any shadows on the blind, yet it
was reasonable to suppose that I might still
catch the doctor in the street; so out I rushed.
Sure enough there was the doctor just coming
out of No. 4, Cross-street. How lucky I was
to be in time!

I found the parish medical authority not very
communicative or prone to take a very romantic
view of sickness and suffering. He was a good
sort of man enough, no doubt, but dry and
matter-of-fact. He had seen so much of sickness
and misery that he was used to it. He
answered all my questions, however, politely,
though seeming a good deal surprised at them.

"He had just been visiting a sick man in that
house, had he not?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, "he had. Bad case of low
fever."

"Second floor—a married couple?" was my
next inquiry.

Again an answer in the affirmative.

"Was it a case of great distress?"

"Yes, of very great distress."

"They have nothing to live upon but what the
husband makes by his labour?" I asked.

"Nothing," was the answer.

"And he is laid up and unable to work."

"That is the state of the case," replied the
doctor.

"Ah! I thought so," said I. "Would you
be kind enough, Doctor Cordial," I continued,
"to take charge of this small sum" (it was a
very small one) " for the benefit of these poor
people—on no account mentioning how you
came by it."

The doctor promised that he would, and I was
just going to leave him, when I thought I would
ask the poor fellow's name.

"His name is Adams," said the doctor, and so
we parted.

I now felt quite a sense of proprietorship in
looking at my poor shadows opposite, and
watched them more eagerly than ever. There
was one action of the shadow, now unfortunately
the only action to watch, which used
to puzzle me not a little. The sick man's
wife used at times to stand before the light,
and, as it appeared to me, used to hold some
article of clothing, or other piece of drapery,
and examine it closely; sometimes I fancied
that I could make the object out to be a
shirt, or a coat, at another time a pair of
trousers. After this she would disappear, and I
always noticed that the lamp would then be
turned down till its light was very low, and
would remain so for a considerable period. I
could not understand this at the time, though
I did afterwards. She was testing the condition
of different, articles of clothing before taking
them to the pawnbroker's.

And now I began to discover one of the bad
results of my solitary life. Though I had given
Doctor Cordial a small sum to go towards helping
these poor people, it was quite impossible,
in my straitened circumstances, that I could
spare more. If I had resolutely kept my
friends about me, there would have been
somebody or other to whom I could apply in behalf
of my poor shadows, while now it was impossible
to do so. Even when the idea entered my mind
of trying to revive some former friendships with
this view, the fear that any one so applied to
might imagine I wanted the help for myself, at
once deterred me.