“The child shall come to you, Miss Monfort, whenever you wish,” said Mrs. Clayton, with ill-disguised eagerness.  “This woman is not the proper person to apply to, however, and it is natural you should feel concerned about it, now that you are able to think and feel again.  You know, of course, it is the boy of the wreck.”

“Yes, very natural.  Its mother died in my arms, if I am not mistaken in the identity of the child; and fortunately—­” I paused here, arrested by some strange instinct of prudence, and decided not to show further interest in his fate.

He might be inquired for, and traced even, I reflected, and thus my own existence be brought to light.  Selfishly, as well as charitably, would I cherish him.  Little children had ever been a passion with me, but this poor, repulsive thing was the “dernier ressort of desolation.”

That very evening I heard the husky and guttural voice of Dr. Englehart in the adjoining chamber, or rather in the closet of Mrs. Clayton, a mere anteroom originally, as it seemed, to the large apartment I occupied.

It was very natural that in her ill condition my dragon should seek medical aid, and I paid no further attention to the propinquity of this unpleasant visitor than I could help—­sitting quietly by my shaded lamp, absorbed in the Psalter, in which I found nightly refuge.

He came in at last, after tapping very lightly on the door-panel, unsolicited and unexpected, to my presence—­the same inscrutable, hirsute horror I had seen before, with his trudging, scraping walk, his square and stalwart frame, his gloved extremities, his light, blue-glasses, hat and cane in hand, a being as I felt to chill one’s very marrow.

“Is it true vat I hear,” he asked, pausing at some distance, “dat you vant to have dat leetle hompback chilt for a companion, Miss Monfort?”

“It is true, Dr. Englehart.”

“And vat can your motif be?  Heh?  I must study dat for a leetle before I can decide de question, or even trost him as a human being in your hands.”

“Lunatics are rarely governed by motives at all,” I replied, “only impulses.  I want human companionship, however, that is all.  I sicken in this solitude—­I am dying of mental inanition.”

“It is true, you look delicate indeed, I am pained to see.”  The accent was forgotten here for a moment, and an expression of real sympathy was perceivable in his low, husky voice.  “Command me in any way dat accords wid my duty,” he continued, “yes! de boy shall come!  To interest, to amuse you, is perhaps—­to cure!”

“Thank you; I shall await his advent anxiously; be careful not to disappoint me.”

“Oh, not for vorlds!”

“You are very kind; I believe, though, that is all we have to say to one another, Dr. Englehart.”

“You are bettair, then?” he said, advancing steadily toward me in spite of this dismissal.  “You need no more leetle pill?  Are you quite sure of dat?”