were deep and soft, and low like a thrush's in an
April garden.  I would rather marry the woman
that owned such a voice than the prettiest woman
in the world.

This young woman had one, and I liked her
instantaneously.

"Who are you, my dear?" I whispered. "His
sister?"

" He has none—nor brother either."

"His cousin, then?"

"No."

I looked my next question, and she answered
it with the simple honesty I expected from the
owner of that voice.

"John and I were playfellows; then we kept
company five years, and meant to be married next
month. His father was against it, or it would
have been sooner. But Johnny wished to stop
trapezeing and settle in some other line; and
Old Stone wanted money, and wouldn't let him
go. At last they agreed for six more
performances, and this was the first of the six."

"He'll never perform more," said I,
involuntarily.

"No, he couldn't with that arm. I am
very thankful for it," said she, with a touching
desperate clutch at the brightest side of things.

How could I tell her what I begun every hour
more to dread, that the broken arm was the least
injury which had befallen the young man; that I
feared one of those concussions to the spine,
which are often produced by a fall from a height,
or a railway injury, and which, without any
external wound, cripples the sufferer for years
or for life.

"No, he never shall do anything o' that sort
again," continued she. "Father or no father,
I'll not have him murdered." And there came a
hard fierceness into her eyes, like that of a
creature who has long been hunted down, and at last
suddenly turns at bay.

"Where is his father? he has not come near
him."

"Of course not. He's a precious coward is Old
Stone, and as sharp as a needle after money, or
at keeping away when money's likely to be
wanted. But don't be afraid. I've myself got
enough to pay you, sir. That's all the better.
He is my Johnny now."

This was the most of our conversation,
carried on at intervals, and in whispers, during
the night. My fellow-watcher sat behind the
curtain, scarcely moving, except to do some
feminine office, such as building up the fire
noiselessly, coal by coal, as nurses know how,
handing me anything I required of food or
medicine. Or else she sat motionless with her
eyes fixed on the death-white face; but she never
shed a tear. Not till, in the dawn of morning,
the young man woke up in his right senses, and
spoke feebly, but articulately.

"Doctor, thank you. I knew you, and I know
what's happened. Only, just one word. I want
Dorothy. Please fetch Dorothy."

"Yes, Johnny," spoken quite softly and
composedly. " Yes, Johnny. I'm here."

It was a difficult case. The first-rate Edinburgh
surgeon, whom, doubting my own skill, I fetched
next day, could make nothing of it. There were
no injuries, external or internal, that could be
traced, except the broken arm; the young man
lay complaining of nothing, perfectly conscious
and rational, but his lower limbs apparently
paralysed.

We called in a third doctor; he, too, was
puzzled; but he said he had known one such
case, where, after a railway accident, a man had
been brought home apparently uninjured, but
having received some severe nervous shock,
probably to the spine. He had been laid upon his
bed, and there he lay yet, though it was years
ago; suffering little, and with all his faculties
clear, but totally helpless; obliged to be watched
over and waited upon like an infant, by his old
wife.

"For he was an old man, and he had a wife,
which was lucky for him," added Doctor A.
"It's rather harder for that poor young fellow,
who may have to lie as he does now for the rest
of his days."

"Hush!" I said, for he was talking loud in
the passage, and close behind us stood poor
Dorothy. I hoped she had not heard, but the
first sight of her face convinced me she had;
only women have at times a self-control that is
almost awful.

Whether it was that I was afraid to meet her,
I do not know, but I stepped quickly out of the
house, and walked a mile or more to the railway
station with my two friends. When I returned,
the first thing I saw was Dorothy, waiting on
the stair-head, with my housekeeper beside her.
For, I should observe, that good woman did not
object nearly so much to a poor dying lad as to
an evening party, and had taken quite kindly to
Dorothy.

Yes, she had heard it all, poor girl, and I could
not attempt to deceive her; indeed, I felt by
instinct that she was a person who could not be
deceived; to whom it was best to tell the whole
truth; satisfied that she would bear it well.
She did, wonderfully. Of course I tempered it
with the faint consolation, that doctors are
sometimes mistaken, and that the young man had
youth on his side; but there the truth was, blank
and bare, nor did I pretend to hide it.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you for
telling me all. My poor Johnny!"

I took her into the parlour, and gave her a glass
of wine.

" I don't need it, sir; I'm used to sick-nursing.
I nursed my sister till she died. We were
dressmakers, and then Johnny got me as costume-
maker to the circus. I can earn a good deal by
my needle, sir."

This seemed far away from the point, and so
did her next remark.

"His father won't help him, sir, you'll see, not
a halfpenny. He's got another—wife he calls
her, and a lot of other children, and doesn't care
twopence for Johnny."

"Poor fellow!"