Left alone, I examined the room in which, oh, thought of joy! I had surely now won the claim to become a privileged guest. I touched the books Lilian must have touched; in the articles of furniture, as yet so hastily disposed that the settled look of home was not about them, I still knew that I was gazing on things which her mind must associate with the history of her young life. That luteharp must be surely hers, and the scarf, with a girl's favourite colours,--pure white and pale blue,--and the bird-cage, and the childish ivory work-case, with implements too pretty for use,--all spoke of her. It was a blissful, intoxicating revery, which Mrs. Ashleigh's entrance disturbed. Lilian was sleeping calmly. I had no excuse to linger there any longer. "I leave you, I trust, with your mind quite at ease," said I. "You will allow me to call to-morrow, in the afternoon?" "Oh, yes, gratefully." Mrs. Ashleigh held out her hand as I made towards the door. Is there a physician who has not felt at times how that ceremonious fee throws him back from the garden-land of humanity into the market-place of money,--seems to put him out of the pale of equal friendship, and say, "True, you have given health and life. Adieu! there, you are paid for it!" With a poor person there would have been no dilemma, but Mrs. Ashleigh was affluent: to depart from custom here was almost impertinence. But had the penalty of my refusal been the doom of never again beholding Lilian, I could not have taken her mother's gold. So I did not appear to notice the hand held out to me, and passed by with a quickened step. "But, Dr. Fenwick, stop!" "No, ma'am, no! Miss Ashleigh would have recovered as soon without me. Whenever my aid is really wanted, then--but Heaven grant that time may never come! We will talk again about her to-morrow." I was gone,--now in the garden ground, odorous with blossoms; now in the lane, inclosed by the narrow walls; now in the deserted streets, over which the moon shone full as in that winter night when I hurried from the chamber of death. But the streets were not ghastly now, and the moon was no longer Hecate, that dreary goddess of awe and spectres, but the sweet, simple Lady of the Stars, on whose gentle face lovers have gazed ever since (if that guess of astronomers be true) she was parted from earth to rule the tides of its deeps from afar, even as love, from love divided, rules the heart that yearns towards it with mysterious law. CHAPTER XI.