And it seemed on that strange, wild night, just such another winter's night as I remember, years and years ago,--as if this distinction between the life and the soul, grew clearer to me than ever before; as if, pardoning all that had happened to its mortal part, a ghost, which, were such visitations allowed, though I do not believe they are, might be supposed often to visit me--followed my ghost, harmlessly,--nay, pitifully, I= ````"Being a tiling immortal as itself,"= the whole way between the camp and Rockmount. I dismounted under the ivy-bush which overhangs the garden-gate, which gate had been left open, so I was able to go, at once, up to the hall-door, where the fan-light flickered on the white stone-floor; the old man's stick was in the corner, and the young ladies' hats hung up on the branching stag's horns. For the moment, I half-believed myself dreaming; and that I should wake as I have often done, after half an hour's rest, with the salt morning breeze blowing on me, in the outside gallery of Scutari Hospital,--start up, take my lamp, and go round my wards. But minutes were precious. I rang the bell; and, almost immediately, a figure slid down the staircase, and opened the door. I might not have thought it flesh and blood, but for the touch of its little cold hand. “Ah! it is you, at last; I was sure you would come.” “Certainly.” Perhaps she thought me cold, “professional,” as if she had looked for a friend, and found only the doctor. Perhaps,--nay, it must be so, she never thought of me at all, except as “the doctor.” “Where is your father?” “Upstairs; we carried him at once to his room. Will you come?” So I followed--I seemed to have nothing to do but to follow that light figure, with the voice so low, the manner so quiet,--quieter than I ever expected to see hers, or any woman's, under such an emergency. I? what did I ever know of women? What did I deserve to know, except that a woman bore me? It is an odd fancy, but I have never thought so much about my mother as within the last few months. And sometimes, turning over the sole relics I have of hers, a ribbon or two, and a curl of hair, and calling to mind the few things Dallas remembered about her, I have imagined my mother, in her youth, must have been something like this young girl. She entered the bed-room first. “You may come in now. You will not startle him; I think he knows nobody.” I sat down beside my patient. He lay, just as he had been brought in from the road, with a blanket and counterpane thrown over him, breathing heavily, but quite unconscious. “The light, please. Can you hold it for me? Is your hand steady?” And I held it a moment to judge. That weakness cost me too much; I took care not to risk it again. When I finished my examination, and looked up, Miss Theodora was still standing by me. Her eyes only asked the question--which, thank God, I could answer as I did. “Yes--it is a more hopeful case than I expected.”