there in the corner by the curtain, and the
shadow of the hand rose and fell as usual; but
Mr. Pycroft had not such a practised eye as I
had for detecting such matters. I pointed these
out to my friend.

"I do see something bobbing up and down,"
he said, "now you mention it. But I should
never have found it out without your help.
Stop! there's a shadow now covering nearly
the whole blind. What's that?"

"I suspect that it is the shadow of the same
person," was my answer. "She will probably
go nearer the window and farther from the light
presently, and then you will see."

In a minute or two the shadow appeared
again, and this time not so large.

"I can make it out now," said my friend,
"quite easily; it is the shadow of a woman.
I can see the line of the waist and of the skirts
of the dress."

"Can you make out the face at all?" I asked.

"Oh yes," answered Mr, P. "It is turned
sideways, looking to the left there. She's gone
now," he added in a moment.

In a few minutes her shadow was thrown again
upon the blind.

"What's she about now?" asked Mr. Pycroft.

"Nay, you shall tell me," I answered.

"Well, she seems to have some small object
in her hand which she is shaking."

"And now?" I asked again.

"I can't make out, her elbow seems raised—
both hands are raised. No, I can't make out
at all."

"I think she is pouring something out,"
said I.

"So she is, no doubt," answered my guest,
who was evidently becoming much interested.
"Stay," he continued, after a moment's pause,
and looking at me quite anxiously as he spoke—
"shaking, pouring—'to be well shaken before
taken'—  why, it must be medicine."

"I suspect it is medicine," was my answer.

"Is there some one ill, then?" asked Mr.
Pycroft.

"Yes," I replied, "her husband."

"And did the shadow tell you that, too?"

"Yes, the shadow of her husband used to
appear on the blind as often as hers, now I
never see it. Exactly coincident with the
disappearance of the husband's shadow has been
the arrival of another shadow, which has been
that of the parish doctor."

"And pray," asked Mr. Pycroft with the air
of one whose credulity had been really too much
tasked at last, "may I ask how you knew it to
be the doctor's shadow?"

"Doctor Cordial has the roundest back you
ever saw in your life," was my answer.

"Well, this is really very curious," ejaculated
the old copper-plate printer, who was now
evidently powerfully interested.

As we continued to look, the light was
suddenly removed, and the room was left in
darkness.

"What do you suppose has happened now?"
inquired my companion.

"I suppose," was my answer, "that she has
left the room for a short time. We shall see
more presently, no doubt;" and almost as I
spoke the light reappeared, and another shadow
was in the room besides that of the little wife.

"The doctor?" asked Mr. Pycroft.

"There," I cried, triumphantly, "you see how
much may be discovered by shadows. You are
expert already."

"He has a round back, certainly," said the
old copper-plate printer.

The round-backed shadow now faded off softly
in the direction towards which the profile of the
little wife was turned so often. The white blind
remained for some minutes shadowless.

"I suppose he is examining his patient now,"
said Mr. Pycroft; "here he is again," he added
in another minute. The doctor, however, stood
so near the light this time and so completely
with his back towards us, that we were unable
to determine what he was doing. This was,
naturally, often the case with the shadows.
Much as one was able to make out, there was,
of course, infinitely more, an explanation of
which it was impossible even to guess at.

In a short time the round-backed shadow was
joined by that of the sick man's wife, and then
the two stood for some time in conversation; at
least it was reasonable to suppose so.

"Giving her directions, I shouldn't wonder,"
said the copper-plate printer.

"Most likely," I answered.

"I wonder if he's very bad," said my
companion. After this there was a pause. The
two shadows continued standing by the table.
At last, we both thought that the doctor's
shadow appeared to give something to the shade
of the engraver's wife, and immediately after, the
light was removed as it had been before: it had
been probably taken out on to the landing in
order that the doctor might see his way down
stairs.

"And so they're very poor," said Mr. Pycroft,
as if talking to himself.

"They had nothing but what the husband
could earn," I answered, "and he is wholly
incapable of working, and will remain so probably
for weeks to come."

The light had now reappeared in the room.
The shadow of the little wife seemed to linger
by the table after setting it down. Her figure
was motionless for a considerable time, and then
we noted that the head fell forward, and that
the face was buried in the hands as if in an
agony of silent grief.

We neither of us spoke, and at the same
moment I dropped the curtain of my own window
which had before been fastened back, for I felt
that this was sorrow with which a spectator had
no right to intermeddle.

Soon afterwards my old friend rose to go, and
we spoke not another word on the matter. Just
before I retired to rest, however, I looked out
once more. The shadow of the little wife's head
was in its usual place, and the shadow of her
hand rose and fell as usual. She was at work
again.