I had time to learn the picture by heart. every line; this little figure sitting by the table, bent head, drooping shoulders, and loose white sleeves shading the two hands, which were crushed so tightly together, that when she stirred I saw the finger-marks of one imprinted on the other. What could she have been thinking of? “Miss Dora, please.” It was only a servant, saying her father wished to speak to her before he went to sleep. “Say I am coming.” She rose quickly, but turned before she reached the door. “I may not see you again before you go. Good night, Dr. Urquhart.” We have said good night, and shaken hands every night for three weeks. I know I have done my duty; no lingering, tender clasping what I had no right to clasp; a mere “good night,” and shake of the hand. But, to-night? I did not say a word--I did not look at her. Yet the touch of that little cold, passive hand has never left mine since. If I lay my hand down here, on this table, it seems to creep into it and nestle there; if I let it go, it comes back again; if I crush my fingers down upon it, though there is nothing, I feel it still--feel it through every nerve and pulse, in heart, soul, body, and brain. This is the merest hallucination, like some of the spectral illusions I have been subject to at times;--the same which made Coleridge once say “he had seen too many ghosts to believe in them.” Let me gather up my faculties. I am sitting in my hut. There is no fire--no one ever thinks of lighting a fire, for me, of course, unless I specially order it. The room is chill, warning me that winter is nigh at hand: disorderly--no one ever touches my goods and chattels, and I have been too much from home lately to institute any arrangement myself. All solitary, too; even my cat, who used to be the one living thing lingering about me, marching daintily over my books, or stealing up purring to lay her head upon my knee, even my cat, weary of my long absence, has disappeared to my next-door neighbour. I am quite alone. Well, such is the natural position of a man without near kindred, who has reached my years, and has not married. He has no right to expect aught else to the end of his days. I rode home from Rockmount two hours ago, leaving a still lively group sitting round the fire in the parlour--Miss Johnston on her sofa, with Mr. Charteris beside her; Treherne sitting opposite, with his arm round his wife's waist.