ou heard any stories of an odd kind; any
surmises--I don't mean of a moral sort, for those I hold very cheap--to
my prejudice? Indeed I should hardly say to my prejudice; I mean--I ought
to say--in short, have you heard people remark upon any fancied
eccentricities, or that sort of thing, about me?"

He put the question with obvious difficulty, and at last seemed to
overcome his own reluctance with a sort of angry and excited
self-contempt and impatience. Doctor Danvers was a little puzzled by
the interrogatory, and admitted, in reply, that he did not comprehend
its drift.

"Doctor Danvers," he resumed, sternly and dejectedly, "I told you, in the
chance interview we had some months ago, that I was haunted by a certain
fear. I did not define it, nor do I think you suspect its nature. It is a
fear of nothing mortal, but of the immortal tenant of this body. My mind;
sir, is beginning to play me tricks; my guide mocks and terrifies me."

There was a perceptible tinge of horror in the look of astonishment with
which Dr. Danvers listened.

"You are a gentleman, sir, and a Christian clergyman; what I have said
and shall say is confided to your honor; to be held sacred as the
confession of misery, and hidden from the coarse gaze of the world. I
have become subject to a hideous delusion. It comes at intervals. I do
not think any mortal suspects it, except, maybe, my daughter Rhoda. It
comes and disappears, and comes again. I kept my pleasant secret for a
long time, but at last I let it slip, and committed myself fortunately,
to but one person, and that my daughter; and, even so, I hardly think she
understood me. I recollected myself before I had disclosed the grotesque
and infernal chimera that haunts me."

Marston paused. He was stooped forward, and looking upon the floor of the
vehicle, so that his companion could not see his countenance. A silence
ensued, which was interrupted by Marston, who once more resumed.

"Sir," said he, "I know not why, but I have longed, intensely longed,
for some trustworthy ear into which to pour this horrid secret; why I
repeat, I cannot tell, for I expect no sympathy, and hate compassion. It
is, I suppose, the restless nature of the devil that is in me; but, be it
what it may, I will speak to you, but to you only, for the present, at
least, to you alone."

Doctor Danvers again assured him that he might repose the most entire
confidence in his secrecy.

"The human mind, I take it, must ha