Adela offered no remark upon the story, and I knew from her countenance that she was too much affected to be inclined to speak. Her eyes had that fixed, forward look, which, combined with haziness, indicates deep emotion, while the curves of her mouth were nearly straightened out by the compression of her lips. I had thought, while the reader went on, that she could hardly fail to find in the story of Elsie, some correspondence to her own condition and necessities: I now believe that she had found that correspondence. More talk was not desirable; and I was glad when, after a few attempts at ordinary conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield rose to take their leave, which was accepted by the whole company as a signal for departure. "But stay," I interposed; "who is to read or tell next?" "Why, I will be revenged on Harry," said the clergyman. "That you can't," said the doctor; "for I have nothing to give you." "You don't mean to say you are going to jib?" "No. I don't say I won't read. In fact I have a story in my head, and a bit of it on paper; but I positively can't read next time." "Will you oblige us with a story, Colonel?" said I. "My dear fellow, you know I never put pen to paper in my life, except when I could not help it. I may tell you a story before it is all over, but write one I cannot." "A tale that is told is the best tale of all," I said. "Shall we book you for next time?" "No, no! not next time; positively not. My story must come of itself, else I cannot tell it at all." "Well, there's nobody left but you, Mr. Bloomfield. So you can't get rid of it." "I don't think I ever wrote what was worth calling a story; but I don't mind reading you something of the sort which I have at home, on one condition." "What is that?" "That nobody ask any questions about it." "Oh! certainly." "But my only reason is, that somehow I feel it would all come to pieces if you did. It is nothing, as a story; but there are feelings expressed in it, which were very strong in me when I wrote it, and which I do not feel willing to talk about, although I have no objection to having them thought about." "Well, that is settled. When shall we meet again?" "To-morrow, or the day after," said the colonel; "which you please." "Oh! the day after, if I may have a word in it," said the doctor. "I shall be very busy to-morrow--and we mustn't crowd remedies either, you know." The close of the sentence was addressed to me only. The rest of the company had taken leave, and were already at the door, when he made the last remark. He now came up to his patient, felt her pulse, and put the question, "How have you slept the last two nights?" "Better, thank you." "And do you feel refreshed when you wake?" "More so than for some time." "I won't give you anything to-night.--Good night." "Good night. Thank you."