course, and only you. It was your face I
attempted to describe, and no other.'

"He seemed not to hear me. ' Why, look
there!' he said, in a low, indistinct voice,
pointing to his own image in the glass. ' Whose
face do you see there?'

"' Why yours, of course.' And then, after
a moment, I added, ' Whose do you see?'

"He answered, like one in a trance, 'His—-
only his—- always his!' He stood still a moment,
and then, with a loud and terrific scream, repeated
those words, ' ALWAYS HIS, ALWAYS
HIS,' and fell down in a fit before me.

"I knew what to do now. Here was a
thing which, at any rate, I could understand.
I had with me my usual small stock of mediicines
and surgical instruments, and I did what
was necessary: first to restore my unhappy
patient, and next to procure for him the rest he
needed so much. He was very ill—- at death's
door for some days and I could not leave him,
though there was urgent need that I should be
back in London. When he began to mend, I
sent over to England for my servant—- John
Masey—- whom I knew I could trust. Acquainting
him with the outlines of the case, I left
him in charge of my patient, with orders that
he should be brought over to this country as
soon as he was fit to travel.

"That awful scene was always before me. I
saw this devoted man day after day, with the
eyes of my imagination, sometimes destroying in
his rage the harmless looking-glass, which was
the immediate cause of his suffering, sometimes
transfixed before the horrid image that turned
him to stone. I recollect coming upon him once
when we were stopping at a roadside inn, and
seeing him stand so by broad daylight. His
back was turned towards me, and I waited and
watched him for nearly half an hour as he stood
there motionless and speechless, and appearing
not to breathe. I am not sure but that this
apparition seen so by daylight was more ghastly
than that apparition seen in the middle of the
night, with the thunder rumbling among the
hills.

"Back in London in his own house, where he
could command in some sort the objects which
should surround him, poor Strange was better
than he would have been elsewhere. He seldom
went out except at night, but once or twice I
have walked with him by daylight, and have
seen him terribly agitated when we have had
to pass a shop in which looking-glasses were
exposed for sale.

"It is nearly a year now since my poor friend
followed me down to this place, to which I have
retired. For some months he has been daily
getting weaker and weaker, and a disease of
the lungs has become developed in him, which
has brought him to his death-bed. I should
add, by-the-by, that John Masey has been his
constant companion ever since I brought them
together, and I have had, consequently, to look
after a new servant.

"And now tell me," the doctor added, bringing
his tale to an end, " did you ever hear a
more miserable history, or was ever man haunted
in a more ghastly manner than this man?"

I was about to reply, when we heard a sound
of footsteps outside, and before I could speak
old Masey entered the room, in haste and
disorder.

"I was just telling this gentleman," the
doctor said: not at the moment observing old
Masey's changed manner: " how you deserted
me to go over to your present master."

"Ah! sir," the man answered, in a troubled
voice, " I'm afraid he won't be my master long."

The doctor was on his legs in a moment.
"What! Is he worse?"

"I think, sir, he is dying," said the old man.

"Come with me, sir; you may be of use if you
can keep quiet." The doctor caught up his hat
as he addressed me in those words, and in a
few minutes we had reached The Compensation
House. A few seconds more and we were
standing in a darkened room on the first floor,
and I saw lying on a bed before me—- pale,
emaciated, and, as it seemed, dying—- the man
whose story I had just heard.

He was lying with closed eyes when we came
into the room, and I had leisure to examine his
features. What a tale of misery they told!
They were regular and symmetrical in their
arrangement, and not without beauty—- the
beauty of exceeding refinement and delicacy.
Force there was none, and perhaps it was to the
want of this that the faults—- perhaps the crime
—- which had made the man's life so miserable
were to be attributed. Perhaps the crime?
Yes, it was not likely that an affliction, lifelong
and terrible, such as this he had endured,
would come upon him unless some misdeed had
provoked the punishment. What misdeed we
were soon to know.

It sometimes—- I think generally—- happens
that the presence of any one who stands and
watches beside a sleeping man will wake him,
unless his slumbers are unusually heavy. It
was so now. While we looked at him, the
sleeper awoke very suddenly, and fixed his
eyes upon us. He put out his hand and took
the doctor's in its feeble grasp. " Who is
that?" he asked next, pointing towards me.

"Do you wish him to go? The gentleman
knows something of your sufferings, and is
powerfully interested in your case; but he will
leave us, if you wish it," the doctor said.

"No. Let him stay."

Seating myself out of sight, but where I could
both see and hear what passed, waited for what
should follow. Dr. Garden and John Masey
stood beside the bed. There was a moment's
pause.

"I want a looking-glass," said Strange, without
a word of preface.

We all started to hear him say those words.

"I am dying," said Strange; "will you not
grant me my request?"

Doctor Garden whispered to old Masey;
and the latter left the room. He was not
absent long, having gone no further than the