This statement of the waiting-woman, so simple, natural and true, is enough to arouse in a moment the curiosity of the most indifferent stranger, and to inspire him with an inexpressible anxiety to know what it means, and to what it will lead. The doctor, however, is a man of the world, and is not so easily worked on. He replies with a mere generality: “A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what at any time have you heard her say?” Here there is a peeping out of curiosity on the part of the honest physician, who is eager to learn all that may be acquired of what has the appearance of an interesting secret. But his companion does not mean to go further than prudence and self-security require. She replies at once in a way which, while it balks curiosity, sharpens its appetite. “That, sir, which I will not report after her.” What would any doctor say in such a case? “You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should.” He is aroused. He wishes—he is determined to know this mystery, and therefore pleads the privilege and necessity, as well as the prudence of his profession. “You may tell _any_ thing to _me_. Of course I shall never reveal. I am the depositary of a thousand family secrets. Besides, if I am to treat the patient, I _must_ know what is the matter with her.” But the waiting-woman is not going to be driven from her determination. She has obviously received _a deep-seated fright_. Her whole self-possession is called up for her defence and guidance. She is a single woman, in a lonely castle, and in a really awful position, accidentally the holder of a secret involving the reputation, if not the life and death of those in power, and the fate perhaps of nations. Were she to hint her suspicion that her royal mistress was a murderess—that the fierce king, now desperate with the danger impending over his kingdom, had gained the throne by a foul assassination—how can she be sure that the doctor will not go to the king and betray her, to ingratiate himself into the favor of his royal master? Courts are not the places for too light confidences—particularly of such secrets. In such case the truth or falsehood of the statement would be little inquired into, and she would be probably hurled from the battlements or immured to starve in some dark dungeon. She is—you feel she is, quite in earnest, and quite right to reply: “Neither to _you_ nor _any one_; having no _witness_ to _confirm my speech_.” * * * * * EPHEMERA. BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. Well might weep the sentimental Persian, Looking o’er his host of armed men, When on Greece he made his wild incursion, Whence so few might e’er return again.