“She is a good scholar enough, but I don't know what to make of her. Sometimes I think she is a little out of her head. Her father, I believe, is sensible enough;--what sort of a woman was her mother, Doctor?--I suppose, of course, you remember all about her?” “Yes, I knew her mother. She was a very lovely young woman.”--The Doctor put his hand to his forehead and drew a long breath.--“What is there you notice out of the way about Elsie Venner?” “A good many things,” the master answered. “She shuns all the other girls. She is getting a strange influence over my fellow-teacher, a young lady,--you know Miss Helen Darley, perhaps? I am afraid this girl will kill her. I never saw or heard of anything like it, in prose at least;--do you remember much of Coleridge's Poems, Doctor?” The good old Doctor had to plead a negative. “Well, no matter. Elsie would have been burned for a witch in old times. I have seen the girl look at Miss Darley when she had not the least idea of it, and all at once I would see her grow pale and moist, and sigh, and move round uneasily, and turn towards Elsie, and perhaps get up and go to her, or else have slight spasmodic movements that looked like hysterics;--do you believe in the evil eye, Doctor?” “Mr. Langdon,” the Doctor said, solemnly, “there are strange things about Elsie Veneer,--very strange things. This was what I wanted to speak to you about. Let me advise you all to be very patient with the girl, but also very careful. Her love is not to be desired, and “--he spoke in a lower tone--“her hate is to be dreaded. Do you think she has any special fancy for anybody else in the school besides Miss Darley?” Mr. Bernard could not stand the old Doctor's spectacled eyes without betraying a little of the feeling natural to a young man to whom a home question involving a possible sentiment is put suddenly. “I have suspected,” he said,--“I have had a kind of feeling--that she--Well, come, Doctor,--I don't know that there 's any use in disguising the matter,--I have thought Elsie Veneer had rather a fancy for somebody else,--I mean myself.” There was something so becoming in the blush with which the young man made this confession, and so manly, too, in the tone with which he spoke, so remote from any shallow vanity, such as young men who are incapable of love are apt to feel, when some loose tendril of a woman's fancy which a chance wind has blown against them twines about them for the want of anything better, that the old Doctor looked at him admiringly, and could not help thinking that it was no wonder any young girl should be pleased with him. “You are a man of nerve, Mr. Langdon?” said the Doctor. “I thought so till very lately,” he replied. “I am not easily frightened, but I don't know but I might be bewitched or magnetized, or whatever it is when one is tied up and cannot move. I think I can find nerve enough, however, if there is any special use you want to put it to.”