next house. He held an oval-framed mirror
in his hand when he returned. A shudder
passed through the body of the sick man as he
saw it.

"Put it down," he said, faintly—-" anywhere
—- for the present."

No one of us spoke. I do not think, in that
moment of suspense, that we could, any of us,
hae spoken if we had tried.

The sick man tried to raise himself a little.
"Prop me up," he said. "1 speak with difficulty
—- I have something to say."

They put pillows behind him, so as to raise
his head and body.

"I have presently a use for it," he said,
indicating the mirror. " I want to see—-" He
stopped, and seemed to change his mind. He
was sparing of his words. "I want to tell
you—- all about it." Again he was silent. Then
he seemed to make a great effort and spoke
once more, beginning very abruptly.

"I loved my wife fondly. I loved her—- her
name was Lucy. She was English; but, after
we were married, we lived long abroad—- in Italy.
She liked the country, and I liked what she
liked. She liked to draw, too, and I got her a
master, he was an Italian. I will not give his
name. We always called him ' the Master.' A
treacherous insidious man this was, and, under
cover of his profession, took advantage of his
opportunities, and taught, my wife to love him
—- to love him.

"I am short of breath. I need not enter into
details as to how I found them out; but I did
find them out. We were away on a sketching
expedition when I made my discovery. My
rage maddened me, and there was one at hand
who fomented my madness. My wife had a
maid, who, it seemed, had also loved this man
—- the Master—- and had been ill treated and
deserted by him. She told me all. She had
played the part of go-between had carried
letters. "When she told me these things, it was
night, in a solitary Italian town, among the
mountains. ' He is in his room now,' she said,
writing to her.'

"A frenzy took possession of me as I listened
to those words. I am naturally vindictive
—- remember that—- and now my longing
for revenge was like a thirst. Travelling in
those lonely regions, I was armed, and when
the woman said, ' He is writing to your wife,'
I laid hold of my pistols, as by an instinct.
It has been some comfort to me since, that I
took them both. Perhaps, at that moment, I
may have meant fairly by him—- meant that
we should fight. I don't know what I
meant, quite. The woman's words, 'He is
in his own room now, writing to her,' rung in
my ears.

The sick man stopped to take breath.
It seemed an hour, though it was probably
not more than two minutes, before he spoke
again.

"I managed to get into his room unobserved.
Indeed, he was altogether absorbed in what he
was doing. He was sitting at the only table
in the room, writing at a travelling-desk,
hy the light of a single candle. It was a
rude dressing-table, and—- and before him—-
exactly before him—- there was—- there was a
looking-glass.

"I stole up behind him as he sat and wrote
by the light of the candle. I looked over his
shoulder at his letter, and I read, ' Dearest
Lucy, my love, my darling.' As I read the
words, I pulled the trigger of the pistol I held
in my right hand, and killed him—- killed
him—- but, before he died, he looked up
once—- not at me, but at my image before
him in the glass, and his face—- such a face
has been there—- ever since, and mine—- my face
is gone!"

He fell back exhausted, and we all pressed
forward thinking that he must be dead, he lay
so still.

But he had not yet passed away. He revived
under the influence of stimulants. He tried to
speak, and muttered indistinctly from time to
time words of which we could sometimes make no
sense. We understood, however, that he had been
tried by an Italian tribunal, and had been found
guilty; but with such extenuating circumstances
that his sentence was commuted to imprisonment,
during, we thought we made out, two
years. But we could not understand what he
said about his wife, though we gathered that she
was still alive, from something he whispered to
the doctor of there being provision made for her
in his will.

He lay in a doze for something more than an
hour after he had told his tale, and then he
woke up quite suddenly, as he had done when
we had first entered the room. He looked
round uneasily in all directions, until his eye
fell on the looking-glass.

"I want it," he said, hastily; but I noticed
that he did not shudder now, as it was brought
near. When old Masey approached, holding
it in his hand, and crying like a child, Dr.
Garden came forward and stood between him
and his master, taking the hand of poor Strange
in his.

"Is this wise?" he asked. " Is it good, do
you, think, to revive this misery of your life
now, when it is so near its close? The chastisement
of your crime," he added, solemnly, " has
been a terrible one. Let us hope in God's mercy
that your punishment is over."

The dying man raised himself with a last
great effort, and looked up at the doctor
with such an expression on his face as none
of us had seen on any face, before.

"I do hope so," he said, faintly, "but you
must let me have my way in this—- for if, now,
when I look, I see aright—- once more—- I shall
then hope yet more strongly—- for I shall take it
as a sign."

The doctor stood aside without another word,
when he heard the dying man speak thus, and
the old servant, drew near, and, stooping over
softly, held the looking-glass before his master.
Presently afterwards, we, who stood around
looking breathlessly at him, saw such a rapture