(I did not mean to write thus; I meant only to tell my outward story; but such as is written let it be. I am not ashamed of it.) Thus things went on, and I did not get stronger. One Saturday afternoon Mrs. Granton went a long drive, to see some family in whom Doctor Urquhart had made her take an interest, if, indeed, there was need to do more than mention any one's being in trouble, in the dear woman's hearing, in order to unseal a whole torrent of benevolence. The people's name was Ansdell; they were strangers, belonging to the camp; there was a daughter dying of consumption. It was one of my dark days: and I lay, thinking how much useless sentiment is wasted upon the young who die; how much vain regret at their being so early removed from the enjoyments they share, and the good they are doing, when they often do no good and have little joy to lose. Take, for instance, Mrs. Granton and me: if Death hesitated between us, I know which he had better choose: the one who had least pleasure in living, and who would be easiest spared--who, from either error or fate, or some inherent faults, which, become almost equal to a fate, had lived twenty-five years without being of the smallest use to anybody; and to whom the best that could happen would apparently be to be caught up in the arms of the Great Reaper, and sown afresh in a new world, to begin again. Let me confess all this--because it explains the mood which I afterwards betrayed; and because it caused me to find out that I was not the only person into whose mind such wild and wicked thoughts have come, to be reasoned down--battled down--prayed down. I was in the large drawing-room, supposed to be lying peacefully on the sofa--but in reality, cowering down all in a heap, within the small circle of the fire-light. Beyond, it was very dark--so dark that the shadows would have frightened me, were there not too many spectres close at hand: sad, or evil spirits,--such as come about us all in our dark days. Still, the silence was so ghostly, that when the door opened, I slightly screamed. “Do not be afraid. It is only I.” I was shaken hands with; and I apologised for having been so startled. Doctor Urquhart said, it was he who ought to apologise, but he had knocked and I did not answer, and he had walked in, being “anxious.” Then he spoke about other things, and I soon became myself, and sat listening, with my eyes closed, till, suddenly seeing him, I saw him looking at me. “You have been worse to-day.” “It was my bad day.” “I wish I could see you really better.” “Thank you.” My eyes closed again--all things seemed dim and far off, as if my life were floating away, and I had no care to seize hold of it--easier to let it go. “My patient does not do me much credit. When do you intend to honour me by recovering, Miss Theodora?” “I don't know;--it does not much matter.” It wearied me to answer even him. He rose, walked up and down the room, several times, and returned to his place.