Very soon Mr. Pearson appeared, and advised the usual remedy of bleeding. The lady walked to the window, and stood there, watching the proceedings of those without, until the arrangements of a very simple funeral were terminated, and the little procession, which attended the young Ella Winstanley to her untimely grave, gradually moved on, and disappeared at the turning of the street. The countenance of the lady, as she returned to the sofa, showed that she had been very much moved by the sight. Having been bled, the stranger opened his eyes; which now, as he lay there, extended upon the sofa, displayed a gloomy but remarkable beauty--a beauty, however, arising rather from their form and color, than from their expression, which was more painful than interesting. Again the lady fixed her eyes upon his face, and again she shuddered, and half turned away. Pity, disgust, and regret, were mingled in her gesture. The stranger's eyes followed her, with a dreamy and unsettled look. He seemed to be as mazed with wonder as she was. She turned again, as if to satisfy her doubts. His eyes met hers; and, as they did so, recollection seemed to be restored. "Where am I, and what is it?" he muttered. "You are where you will be taken good care of until you are able to be removed," said the lady. "Is there any one you would wish to have sent for?" The man did not speak. "Any one you would wish to be sent for?" she repeated. "No," he answered. "Any thing more you would wish to have done?" "Nothing." He lay silent for some time, with his eyes still fixed upon her. At last he said, "Tell me where I am?" "Where you are welcome to be until you can gather strength enough to proceed to the place to which you were going when this attack seized you. And that was--?" "Nowhere. But what house is this?" "A house only destined for the reception of ladies," she answered. "Ladies! what ladies?" "The sick who have no other home." "A house of charity, then?" "Partly." "And that one--that one--that young creature, whose funeral--Do you know her? any thing about _her_--?" "Yes," answered the lady, with gravity, approaching to severity, "I do know _much_ about her." "Why--why did she come here?" "Because she was friendless and deserted; poor, sick, and miserable. She had given up what little money she had to supply the wants--perhaps--who knows?--the vices of another. Happily there were found those who would befriend her." "And she accepted the charity; she received the alms?" "She had learned to submit herself to the will of God." He shut his teeth together with a something between bitterness and contempt at these last words, and turned his head away. "You are her father?" said the lady. "I am--" "Then you are a very wretched man," she added. "Yes," he replied, "I am most miserable." "You are one who have reaped from seeds, which might have produced a rich harvest of happiness, nothing but black and blighted misery."