desire was to avenge the murder of my
friend on myself, his murderer; and I
walked along quickly that I might overtake
the slow hours, and gain the moment of
expiation.

I went straight to the master's room. He
spoke to me harshly, and ordered me out of
his sight; as he did when ever I came before
him. I told him authoritatively to listen to
me; I had something to say to him; and
my manner, I suppose, struck him: for he
turned round to me again, and told me to
speak. What had I to say?

I began by stating briefly that Herbert had
fallen down Haglin's crag; and then I was
about to add that it was I who had flung
him down though unintentionally—when—
whether it was mere faintness, to this day I do
not know— I fell senseless to the earth. And
for weeks I remained senseless with brain
fever, from it was believed the terrible
shock my system had undergone at
seeing my dearest friend perish so miserably
before my eyes. This belief helped much
to soften men's hearts,—and to give me
a place in their sympathy, never given me
before.

When I recovered, that dark shadow still
clung silently to me; and whenever I
attempted to speak the truth—and the secret
always hung clogging on my tongue—the
same scene was gone through as before; I
was struck down by an invisible hand; and
reduced perforce to silence. I knew then
that I was shut out from expiation—
as I had shut myself out from reparation
in my terrible deed. Day and night, day
and night! always haunted with a fierce
thought of sin, and striving helplessly to
express it.

I had come now to that time in my life
when I must choose a profession. I
resolved to become a physician from the
feeling of making such reparation to
humanity as I was able, for the life I had
destroyed. I thought if I could save life,
if I could alleviate suffering, and bring blessing
instead of affliction, that I might somewhat
atone for my guilt. If not to the
individual, yet to humanity at large. No one
ever clung to a profession with more
ardour than I undertook the study of
medicine; for it seemed to me my only
way of salvation, if indeed that were yet
possible —a salvation to be worked out not
only by chastisement and control of my
passions, but by active good among my
fellow-men.

I shall never forget the first patient I
attended. It was a painful case, where
there was much suffering; and to the relations
—to that poor mother above all—
bitter anguish. The child had been given
over by the doctors; and I was called in
as the last untried, from despair, not from
hope; I ordered a new remedy; one that
few would have the courage to prescribe.
The effect was almost miraculous, and, as the
little one breathed freer, and that sweet soft
sleep of healing crept over her, the thick darkness
hanging round me lightened perceptibly.
Had I solved the mystery of my future? By
work and charity should I come out into the
light again? and could deeds of reparation
dispel that darkness which a mere objectless
punishment— a mere mental repentance—
could not touch?

This experience gave me renewed courage:
I devoted myself more ardently to my
profession, chiefly among the poor, and without
remuneration. Had I ever accepted money, I
believe that all my power would have gone.
And as I saved more and more lives, and
lightened more and more the heavy burden of
human suffering, the dreadful shadow grew
fainter.

I was called suddenly to a dying lady. No
name was given me, neither was her station
in life nor her condition told me. I hurried
off without caring to ask questions: careful
only to heal. When I reached the house,
I was taken into a room where she lay in a
fainting fit on the bed. Even before I
ascertained her malady—with that almost second
sight of a practised physician—her wonderful
beauty struck me. Not merely because it was
beauty, but because it was a face strangely
familiar to me, though new; strangely speaking
of a former love: although, in all my
practice, I had never loved man or woman
individually.

I roused the lady from her faintness; but
not without much trouble. It was more like
death than swooning, and yielded to my
treatment stubbornly. I remained with her for
many hours; but when I left her she was
better. I was obliged to leave her, to attend
a poor workhouse child.

I had not been gone long—carrying with
me that fair face lying in its death-like
trance, with all its golden hair scattered wide
over the pillow, and the blue lids weighing
down the eyes, as one carries the remembrance
of a sweet song lately sung—carrying
it, too, as a talisman against that dread
shadow which somehow hung closer on me
to-night; the darkness, too, deepening into
its original blackness, and the chill lying
heavily on my heart again—when a
messenger hurried after me, telling me the
lady was dying, and I was to go back
immediately. I wanted no second bidding. In a
moment, as it seemed to me, I was in her
room again. It was dark.

The lady was dying now, paralysed from
her feet upwards. I saw the death-ring
mount higher and higher; that faint, bluish
ring with which death marries some of his
brides. I bent every energy, every thought to
the combat. I ordered remedies so strange to
the ordinary rules of medicine, that it was
with difficulty the chemist would prepare
them. She opened her eyes full upon me,
and the whole room was filled with the