to him now—the memorable words that he had
spoken to his sister at parting. With that
thought in his heart, he had gone where his
duty waited for him. Months and months had
passed; thousands and thousands of miles,
protracting their desolate length on the unresting
waters, had rolled between them. And
through the lapse of time, and over the waste
of oceans—day after day, and night after night,
as the winds of heaven blew, and the good
ship toiled on before them—he had advanced,
nearer and nearer to the end that was waiting
for him; he had journeyed blindfold to the
meeting on the threshold of that miserable door.

"What has brought me here?" he said to
himself, in a whisper. " The mercy of chance? No!
The mercy of God."

He waited, unregardful of the place,
unconscious of the time, until the sound of
footsteps on the stairs came suddenly between him
and his thoughts. The door opened, and the
doctor was shown into the room.

"Dr. Merrick," said the landlady, placing a
chair for him.

"Mr. Merrick," said the visitor, smiling
quietly as he took the chair. " I am not a
physician— I am a surgeon in general practice."

Physician or surgeon, there was something in
his face and manner which told Kirke, at a
glance, that he was a man to be relied on.

After a few preliminary words on either side,
Mr. Merrick sent the landlady into the bedroom
to see if his patient was awake or asleep. The
woman returned, and said she was " betwixt the
two, light in the head again, and burning hot."
The doctor went at once into the bedroom,
telling the landlady to follow him, and to close
the door behind her.

A weary time passed before he came back into
the front room. When he reappeared, his face
spoke for him, before any question could be asked.

"Is it a serious illness?" said Kirke, his voice
sinking low, his eyes anxiously fixed on the
doctor's face.

"It is a dangerous illness," said Mr. Merrick,
with an emphasis on the word.

He drew his chair nearer to Kirke, and looked
at him attentively.

"May I ask you some questions, which are not
strictly medical?" he inquired.

Kirke bowed.

"Can you tell me, what her life has been,
before she carne into this house, and before she
fell ill?"

"I have no means of knowing. I have just
returned to England, after a long absence."

"Did you know of her coming here?"

"I only discovered it by accident."

"Has she no female relations? No mother?
no sister? no one to take care of her but
yourself?"

"No one—unless I can succeed in tracing
her relations. No one but myself."

Mr. Merrick was silent. He looked at Kirke
more attentively than ever. " Strange!" thought
the doctor. " He is here, in sole charge of her
—and is this all he knows?"

Kirke saw the doubt in his face; and
addressed himself straight to that doubt, before
another word passed between them.

"I see my position here surprises you,"
he said, simply. " Will you consider it the
position of a relation—the position of her
brother, or her father—until her friends can be
found?" His voice faltered, and he laid his
hand earnestly on the doctor's arm. " I have
taken this trust on myself," he said; " and, as
God shall judge me, I will not be unworthy of
it!"

The poor weary head lay on his breast again,
and the poor fevered fingers clasped his hand
once more, as he spoke those words.

"I believe you," said the doctor, warmly.
"I believe you are an honest man.—Pardon me
if I have seemed to intrude myself on your
confidence. I respect your reserve—from this
moment, it is sacred to me. In justice to both of
us, let me say that the questions I have asked,
were not prompted by mere curiosity. No
common cause will account for the illness which
has laid my patient on that bed. She has suffered
some long-continued mental trial, some wearing
and terrible suspense—and she has broken down
under it. It might have helped me, if I could
have known what the nature of the trial was, and
how long or how short a time elapsed before
she sank under it. In that hope, I spoke."

"When you told me she was dangerously ill,"
said Kirke, " did you mean danger to her reason,
or to her life?"

"To both," replied Mr. Merrick. " Her
whole nervous system has given way; all the
ordinary functions of her brain are in a state of
collapse. I can give you no plainer explanation
than that of the nature of the malady. The
fever which frightens the people of the house,
is merely the effect. The cause is what I
have told you. She may lie on that bed for
weeks to come; passing alternately, without
a gleam of consciousness, from a state of
delirium to a state of repose. You must not be
alarmed if you find her sleep lasting far beyond
the natural time. That sleep is a better remedy
than any I can give, and nothing must disturb it.
All our art can accomplish is to watch her—to
help her with stimulants from time to time—and
to wait for what Nature will do."

"Must she remain here? Is there no hope
of our being able to move her to a better
place?"

"No hope whatever, for the present. She
has already been disturbed, as I understand—
and she is seriously the worse for it. Even if
she gets better, even if she comes to herself
again, it would still be a dangerous experiment
to move her too soon—the least excitement or
alarm would be fatal to her. You must make
the best of this place as it is. The landlady has
my directions; and I will send a good nurse to
help her. There is nothing more to be done.
So far as her life can be said to be in any human
hands; it is as much in your hands now, as in
mine. Everything depends on the care that is
taken of her, under your direction, in this