The next day, by an early post, I received a
letter from Mr. Pycroft. He had been thinking
a great deal, he said, of what he had seen the
night before, and enclosed a little money, which
he asked me to see applied to the benefit of the
young couple in whose fortunes I had interested
myself. He also begged me from time to time
to let him have tidings of what "the shadows"
were about.

I handed the money over to Dr. Cordial, asking
him to apply it as might seem best to his
judgment, but making no mention of who it
came from. I asked him also to let me have
news as frequently as possible of the condition
of his patient. These I transmitted pretty nearly
as often as I received them to the old copper-
plate printer.

For some days there was not much to report,
nor did the shadows tell me anything different
from what they had before revealed. The poor
engraver's shadow was still wanting, and that of
his little wife was either stationary in the corner,
when she did what she could to earn a little
money with her needle, or else was seen flitting
about the room in attendance on her sick
husband. At length there came a time when the
fever reached its crisis, and when it was clear,
according to the doctor's report, that the sufferer
must sink under it or recover. To make my
story as short as possible, I will not dwell on
the details of this period of suspense. The
one quality of youth, possessed by the patient,
enabled his constitution to rally, and after this
crisis in his disorder he began to mend.

And now a long convalesence followed, and a
time arrived when one evening the shadow of a
wasted figure moved slowly past the light, and I
could guess as I watched it, and observed that
it was accompanied by the well-known shadow
of the little wife, that the sick man was moving
from his bed to a chair by the fire.

Of course I made this advance known to my
friend, the copper-plate printer, and kept him
well acquainted with all the particulars of the
gradual improvement in our invalid's health,
even to the period when it was so far
re-established that he was able at last to sit up
for a certain number of hours every day at his
engraving table, and work once more for his
wife's support.

"They are very grateful," I said, when I
made this announcement to my old acquaintance,
"to the unknown friend who has assisted them
from time to time throughout their trouble."

"Oh no, nonsense, nonsense; it's nothing,
nothing at all—nothing at all," ejaculated the
old fellow, trying to get away from the subject.

"And they are very anxious," I continued,
resolutely, "to thank him personally, if he would but
reveal himself and give them the opportunity."

"No, no, not for the world," was the answer;
"oh dear no, impossible. Here, here's a little
trifle extra just to set them going you know,
because he mustn't work too much at first."

"And you won't let them see you?" I asked
again:

"No, no, no, on no account," said the old
boy. "I'll tell you what, though," he continued
in a moment, "I should like to see them—see
them as I did before—the shadows you know,"
he added. "I'll come and have a glass of
brandy-and-water with you some evening, and
have a look at the shadows again."

I was obliged to be satisfied with this, and
making an engagement with my old friend for
an early day, I left him, and went home.

The evening came, and with it an unusual
amount of stir and bustle in the quiet room
opposite. The figure of the little wife was
continually flitting backwards and forwards in
front of the light, as if she were engaged
in smartening up the poor apartment. Hanging
in the very middle of the window, and
so close to the thin white blind that I could
see it distinctly, there was a birdcage with
a bird in it; and it was owing to the
presence of this object that I had been chiefly
able to form some idea of what my two friends
opposite were like. When either of them
approached the birdcage, as would sometimes
happen, to give a chirp of encouragement to its
occupant, I could see the profile of the person
who did so, as distinctly as one used to trace
the silhouettes of the old black portraits which
itinerant artists were wont to cut out at fairs.
Except at such times as this, when the engraver
or his wife stood thus near the window and far
from the light, I could distinguish little but
a shapeless mass; and when either of them
approached the candle nearly, their shadows
became so gigantic that the whole space of the
window—an unusually large one—was
completely darkened, even by one figure. I must
repeat what I have said before, that the
opportunities were very rare when I could make out
what the shadows were about, and that in all
cases in which I could detect such processes of
mixing drinks, pouring out of medicines, and the
like, it was owing to the fact that some necessary
object connected with the proceeding was
placed on some article of furniture which stood
in or near the window.

Punctual to the appointed time, my old friend,
the copper-plate printer, made his appearance,
and his first question after the usual greeting
had been exchanged, was:

"Well—how are the shadows?"

I placed his chair in the old position, and we
both sat down.

The bustle and movement to which I have
adverted as going on in the room opposite, were
still noticeable, and I had little doubt that the
apartment was being "cleaned up;" an impression
to which additional force was soon given
by the dawning on the scene of a thin, straight
shadow, which I took to be a broomstick, and
which was now brought into active service.

I must not omit to mention, that at the
moment of a certain pause in the career of the
broom, the figure of the poor engraver was
thrown with great distinctness on the blind. He
had come to the window to stick some object,
probably a piece of groundsel, between the wires
of the birdcage.