“I was led up into an old-fashioned, richly-furnished room.  A great wood-fire burned on the hearth.  The bed was surrounded with heavy dark curtains, in which the shadowy remains of bright colours were just visible.  In the bed lay one of the loveliest young creatures I had ever seen.  And, one on each side, stood two of the most dreadful-looking women I had ever beheld.  Still as death, while I examined my patient, they stood, with moveless faces, one as white as the other.  Only the eyes of both of them were alive.  One was evidently mistress, and the other servant.  The latter looked more self-contained than the former, but less determined and possibly more cruel.  That both could be unkind at least, was plain enough.  There was trouble and signs of inward conflict in the eyes of the mistress.  The maid gave no sign of any inside to her at all, but stood watching her mistress.  A child’s toy was lying in a corner of the room.”

I may here interrupt my friend’s story to tell my reader that I may be mingling some of my own conclusions with what the good man told me of his.  For he will see well enough already that I had in a moment attached his description to persons I knew, and, as it turned out, correctly, though I could not be certain about it till the story had advanced a little beyond this early stage of its progress.

“I found the lady very weak and very feverish—­a quick feeble pulse, now bounding, and now intermitting—­and a restlessness in her eye which I felt contained the secret of her disorder.  She kept glancing, as if involuntarily, towards the door, which would not open for all her looking, and I heard her once murmur to herself —­for I was still quick of hearing then—­’He won’t come!’ Perhaps I only saw her lips move to those words—­I cannot be sure, but I am certain she said them in her heart.  I prescribed for her as far as I could venture, but begged a word with her mother.  She went with me into an adjoining room.

“‘The lady is longing for something,’ I said, not wishing to be so definite as I could have been.

“The mother made no reply.  I saw her lips shut yet closer than before.

“‘She is your daughter, is she not?’

“’Yes,’—­very decidedly.

“‘Could you not find out what she wishes?’

“‘Perhaps I could guess.’

“‘I do not think I can do her any good till she has what she wants.’

“‘Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor?’ she said, tartly.

“‘Yes, certainly,’ I answered—­’in the present case.  Is she married?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Has she any children?’

“‘One daughter.’

“‘Let her see her, then.’

“‘She does not care to see her.’

“‘Where is her husband?’

“’Excuse me, doctor; I did not send for you to ask questions, but to give advice.’

“’And I came to ask questions, in order that I might give advice.  Do you think a human being is like a clock, that can be taken to pieces, cleaned, and put together again?’