“Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering?” “I am not quite sure what my nervous system is, but I was dreadfully low-spirited.” “Which disables me from helping you by pill or potion. Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of Hypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber of torture, but can neither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you should be as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise.” Acquiescence and a pause followed these remarks. They sounded all right, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom, and the well-worn stamp of use. “Miss Snowe,” recommenced Dr. John—my health, nervous system included, being now, somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with—“is it permitted me to ask what your religion is? Are you a Catholic?” I looked up in some surprise—“A Catholic? No! Why suggest such an idea?” “The manner in which you were consigned to me last night made me doubt.” “I consigned to you? But, indeed, I forget. It yet remains for me to learn how I fell into your hands.” “Why, under circumstances that puzzled me. I had been in attendance all day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and critical character; the disease being rare, and its treatment doubtful: I saw a similar and still finer case in a hospital in Paris; but that will not interest you. At last a mitigation of the patient’s most urgent symptoms (acute pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated me, and I set out homeward. My shortest way lay through the Basse-Ville, and as the night was excessively dark, wild, and wet, I took it. In riding past an old church belonging to a community of Béguines, I saw by a lamp burning over the porch or deep arch of the entrance, a priest lifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal the priest’s features clearly, and I recognised him; he was a man I have often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and chiefly the latter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better than most of his class in this country; superior, indeed, in every way, better informed, as well as more devoted to duty. Our eyes met; he called on me to stop: what he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. I alighted. “‘This person is one of your countrywomen,’ he said: ‘save her, if she is not dead.’ “My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the English teacher at Madame Beck’s pensionnat. She was perfectly unconscious, perfectly bloodless, and nearly cold. “‘What does it all mean?’ was my inquiry. “He communicated a curious account; that you had been to him that evening at confessional; that your exhausted and suffering appearance, coupled with some things you had said—” “Things I had said? I wonder what things!”