However, it, was not so. Her health, day by day, improved, and the relation between the patient and her medical attendant became more amicable. She proposed, by way of some return, to assist him in his bachelor housekeeping. It would give her no trouble. An hour in the morning, when he was at his lectures, some of which he still followed; and then she could cook, and she could mend. These offers the young Doctor declined with a sort of alarm. Who but himself could readjust those habiliments, whose strong and whose weak points he so very well knew? What needle could, on this ground, be half so skilful as his own? And cooking! Cooking with him! Cook what? _On_ what? _In_ what? It was in vain that the Countess insisted; he would hear of no such thing. He kept his poverty veiled--it was his sacred territory. Some few days after the Countess's health might be said to be quite re-established, our young Doctor, on entering his room, was surprised to see a letter lying on his table. Correspondence, for the mere sake of letter-writing, he had quite foregone as a pure waste of time; and he had no relatives who interested themselves in his fate, or who could have any thing to communicate. Nevertheless, there the letter was, addressed duly to himself. He looked at it with an uncomfortable foreboding, assured that it must bring him some new care, or report some strange disaster. He sat down, and tore open the envelope. He bounded from his seat again with surprise--the letter enclosed fifteen notes of the Bank of France! It is no fairy tale, but simple history; fifteen good notes of one thousand francs each. Inside the envelope was written:--"This treasure belongs to you as your property. Use it without scruple. The hand that transmits it does but accomplish a legitimate restitution. May the gifts of Fortune conduct you to the Temple of Happiness!" There was no signature. "Why, it is a dream, a hallucination. Am I growing light-headed?" said the Doctor. But no--it was no dream; there they were--before him--on the little table--those, fifteen miraculous pieces of paper. He turned his head away from them; but when he looked again, there they were--in the same place--in the same order--motionless. I leave you to guess his agitation and his many mingled emotions. From whom could this godsend have come? He read and reread, and turned the letter in every direction. He racked his brain to no purpose to discover his anonymous benefactor. He knew, and was known to, scarcely any one. He strode about his chamber--as well as he could stride in it--inventing the wildest suppositions, which were rejected as soon as made. Suddenly he stopped--struck his forehead as a new thought occurred to him--"Bah!" he cried; "absurd!--impossible!--and yet----"