e she groaned, and threw herself forward on the bed in agony.

"My dear Miss Edith," I said, compassionately, "calm yourself; pray
reflect. I can't, I daren't leave you to die. Be persuaded, and take
only a little harmless, quieting medicine, not nauseous to the taste,
and which may not have the effect of making you cease to dream."

But my fair patient was not to be persuaded, so, with hat in hand, I
made another step towards the door.

"Stay, doctor," she said; "whatever you do, keep our conversation secret
from the people of the house."

"Certainly," said I. "Has it not been under the 'seal of confession!'"

"True, true," she said; "and, doctor--would you mind--if you are really
going to call upon--Charles, to--to--take a relic to him of me?"

"Not at all," I said. "On the contrary, I should be most happy; but--" I
said, after a moment's reflection, "but--your parents--would they
object, do you think?"

"Oh, don't be afraid, doctor," she replied. "I am very independent, and
as for yourself, your name needn't get mixed up in the transaction."

Here she reached a pair of scissors, and severed one of her long ebony
tresses, which she handed to me with these words:

"Take this," she said, "to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith sends him
this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit."

I promised I would do as she desired, and shaking hands with her, I left
the apartment.

My friend and his wife awaited me in the parlour, and asked me my
opinion of their daughter's case. I gave them hope of her recovery; but
told them that she had positively refused to take any of my medicines,
and I therefore adopted the same man[oe]uvre that I had adopted with
Charles, and was forced to leave the medicine to be administered
clandestinely. I wrote out a prescription and left the house, saying I
would call again in a day or two. I took the mail that evening, and
started for London. Finding myself at length arrived in the great
metropolis, my first thought was to call upon Charles.

As I entered his chamber the expression on my patient's countenance was
one of deepest melancholy. When he first caught sight of me I thought he
looked suspicious, and was going to turn away, but as I approached him
his countenance altogether changed, and grew so bright and radiant, that
he did not look the same man. He had never welcomed me before in this
way, and his manner puzzled me.

"Oh, doctor," he cried, in tones of the grea