into the room, coming down towards me, coming back to her
life. Ah, no! her life was lost and vanished: all mine stood between her
and the days she knew. She looked at me with eyes that did not change.
The anxiety I had seen at first seemed now a wistful, subdued question;
but that difference was not in her look but in mine.

* * * * *

I need not linger on the intervening time. The doctor who attended us
usually, came in next day "by accident," and we had a long conversation.
On the following day a very impressive yet genial gentleman from town
lunched with us,--a friend of my father's, Dr. Something; but the
introduction was hurried, and I did not catch his name. He, too, had a
long talk with me afterwards, my father being called away to speak to
some one on business. Dr.---- drew me out on the subject of the dwellings
of the poor. He said he heard I took great interest in this question,
which had come so much to the front at the present moment. He was
interested in it too, and wanted to know the view I took. I explained at
considerable length that my view did not concern the general subject, on
which I had scarcely thought, so much as the individual mode of
management of my father's estate. He was a most patient and intelligent
listener, agreeing with me on some points, differing in others; and his
visit was very pleasant. I had no idea until after of its special object;
though a certain puzzled look and slight shake of the head when my father
returned, might have thrown some light upon it. The report of the medical
experts in my case must, however, have been quite satisfactory, for I
heard nothing more of them. It was, I think, a fortnight later when the
next and last of these strange experiences came.

This time it was morning, about noon,--a wet and rather dismal spring
day. The half-spread leaves seemed to tap at the window, with an appeal
to be taken in; the primroses, that showed golden upon the grass at the
roots of the trees, just beyond the smooth-shorn grass of the lawn, were
all drooped and sodden among their sheltering leaves. The very growth
seemed dreary--the sense of spring in the air making the feeling of
winter a grievance, instead of the natural effect which it had conveyed a
few months before. I had been writing letters, and was cheerful enough,
going back among the associates of my old life, with, perhaps, a little
longing for its freedom and independence, but at th