of the Alpine Club assailed him by a new
route, and discovered a platform so convenient,
that a small neat edifice was at once erected
there, and the Hôtel de l'Hermite became a
favourite excursion from Martigny.

In despair, poor Bob travelled into a secluded
district of Westphalia, and here occurred the
strange event that concludes this narrative.

My friend, the Baroness d'Ubique, having
kindly offered me the use, for some months, of a
residence of hers, something between a
farmhouse and a castle, in Westphalia, I set forth to
occupy it. It was haunted (hence, perhaps,
the easy terms of my tenancy); but I rather
like ghosts, and the baroness knew it.

Halting to sleep in a certain village, the
name at once struck me as having been
mentioned by Lynn in his flrst letter from these
parts. In the second, and last, he had given
me no address whatever.

Sending for the landlord, I asked him if
British travellers often came this road.

Not unfrequently, was the answer. (Poor
Bob!) There were even English residents at no
great distance. On one side there lay a large
property belonging to an English miladi. On the
other, there was—or there might be, for he was
said to be dead, or, at least, dying—a British
gentleman, mad, but harmless as a child, who
wears——

"A gown? A beard?"

"Both."

I was in the saddle in five minutes, and, well
guided, was, in thirty more, by Bob's bedside.
Not too soon. The dear old fellow, worn to a
very shadow, lay, as it seemed, expecting his
end. An old peasant woman, his sole attendant,
crouched in a corner of the hut.

Bob recognised me, but his mind perpetually
wandered. He believed that he had been many
years a recluse, and, identifying himself in his
mental weakness with Goldsmith's Hermit,
talked constantly of his "Angelina," avowing
his persuasion that she, who had been the star
of his life, would once more visit him, if but
to receive his last breath.

In spite of poor Lynn's debilitated condition
there was something in his appearance that
seemed to encourage hope. I must obtain
medical advice, and that as promptly as possible.
He had fallen into quiet slumber, and I galloped
back to the inn.

There was no good medical advice near at
hand; but, said the landlord, the English miladi
(who arrived at the castle last Monday) always
brought with her her own English doctor.
Doubtless, he might come to his compatriot.

"The miladi's name? Quick."

It was not to be said quickly. "Trek—
Thwack—Trek—Träk—Tattersh——"

"Tattershore!"

"Yes—well—so—Tattershore!"

I had no time for wonder at this strange
fatality. I despatched a note to miladi,
suppressing, of course, Bob's name. It was
answered by the doctor in person, a gentle,
grey-haired man, but with clear intelligent eyes,
in which, occasionally, there sparkled a touch
of humour.

We became such friends, that, on our way
back from a visit to the hermit, I told him all.
Dr. Thurgood listened with attention, and fell
into deep thought.

"I am much in Lady Tattershore's confidence,"
he said. "I know more of her feelings
than—than I have a right to tell. I may tell you
this—she has been for years a changed woman.
Her unhappy married life did that good for her.
Gentle, quiet, loving, if ever she marries again
—(how lucky she refused Lord Queerfish!)—
happy will be the man! There is but one way
of dealing with this case of ours," added the
doctor, with a laughing gleam in his eye. "As
I'm a man and a doctor, I'll try it! Ask no
questions, and express no surprise."

He wrung my hand and vanished.

Next day a carriage drove up to the inn,
and Lady Tattershore, accompanied by the
doctor, receiving me with a sweet, and, I
thought, grateful smile, invited me to go with
them to the hermitage. Arrived there,
Thurgood begged me to sit by my friend until he
should join me. Poor Lynn was very weak
and wandering.

"I am dying, Harry, and she will not come.
Oh, she will never—never come!"

That statement was instantly falsified. His
next words were: "My life! My all in life!"
Kneeling, weeping, the lady was there, clasping
his wasted hand.

Mr. Lynn did not die. He resides principally
at Florence, where, in his beautiful palace,
adored by his wife, whom he has a fancy for
calling Angelina though her name is Grace,
he sees a good deal of the world he has abjured,
and bears it remarkably well.

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