“It is well,” I said to myself.  “Life had better wane slowly away than to go out in lurid gleams like the flashes of a dying volcano.”

CHAPTER V.

And now, reader, after this long digression, you can understand my surprise at seeing broad gleams of light reaching out into the darkness from the windows of that north-west chamber, as I breasted the storm on my way to visit the sick child of Mary Jones.  No wonder that I stood still and looked up at those windows, though the rain beat into my face, half blinding me.  The shutters were thrown open, and the curtains drawn partly aside.  I plainly saw shadows on the ceiling and walls as of persons moving about the room.  Did my eyes deceive me?  Was not that the figure of a young girl that stood for a moment at the window trying to pierce with her eyes the thick veil of night?  I was still in doubt when the figure turned away, and only gave me a shadow on the wall.

I lingered in front of the old house for some minutes, but gaining no intelligence of what was passing within, I kept on my way to the humbler dwelling of Mary Jones.  I found her child quite ill, and needing attention.  After doing what, in my judgment, the case required, I turned my steps towards the house of Mrs. Wallingford to look into the case of her son Henry, who, acording to her account, was in a very unhappy condition.

I went a little out of my way so as to go past the Allen House again.  As I approached, my eyes were directed to the chamber windows at the north-west corner, and while yet some distance away, as the old elms tossed their great limbs about in struggling with the storm, I saw glancing out between them the same cheery light that met my astonished gaze a little while before.  As then, I saw shadows moving on the walls, and once the same slender, graceful figure—­evidently that of a young girl—­came to the window and tried to look out into the deep darkness.

As there was nothing to be gained by standing there in the drenching storm, I moved onward, taking the way to Mrs. Wallingford’s dwelling.  I had scarcely touched the knocker when the door was opened, and by Mrs. Wallingford herself.

“Oh, Doctor, I’m so glad you’ve come!” she said in a low, troubled voice.

I stepped in out of the rain, gave her my dripping umbrella, and laid off my overcoat.

“How is Henry now?” I asked.

She put her finger to her lip, and said, in a whisper,

“Just the same, Doctor—­just the same.  Listen!  Don’t you hear him walking the floor overhead?  I’ve tried to get him to take a cup of tea, but he won’t touch any thing.  All I can get out of him is—­’Mother—­dear mother—­leave me to myself.  I shall come right again.  Only leave me to myself now.’  But, how can I let him go on in this way?  Oh, Doctor, I am almost beside myself!  What can it all mean?  Something dreadful has happened.”