the open manuscript, however, was not covered by his
hand. I looked at it to see what he had secretly stolen away to read,
besides Mr. Brock's letter; and made out enough to tell me that it was
the Narrative of Armadale's Dream.

"That second discovery sent me back at once to my bed--with something
serious to think of.

"Traveling through France, on our way to this place, Midwinter's shyness
was conquered for once, by a very pleasant man--an Irish doctor--whom
we met in the railway carriage, and who quite insisted on being friendly
and sociable with us all through the day's journey. Finding that
Midwinter was devoting himself to literary pursuits, our traveling
companion warned him not to pass too many hours together at his desk.
'Your face tells me more than you think,' the doctor said: 'If you are
ever tempted to overwork your brain, you will feel it sooner than most
men. When you find your nerves playing you strange tricks, don't neglect
the warning--drop your pen.'

"After my last night's discovery in the dressing-room, it looks as
if Midwinter's nerves were beginning already to justify the doctor's
opinion of them. If one of the tricks they are playing him is the trick
of tormenting him again with his old superstitious terrors, there will
be a change in our lives here before long. I shall wait curiously to see
whether the conviction that we two are destined to bring fatal danger to
Armadale takes possession of Midwinter's mind once more. If it does, I
know what will happen. He will not stir a step toward helping his friend
to find a crew for the yacht; and he will certainly refuse to sail with
Armadale, or to let me sail with him, on the trial cruise."

"October 23d.--Mr. Brock's letter has, apparently, not lost its
influence yet. Midwinter is working again to-day, and is as anxious as
ever for the holiday-time that he is to pass with his friend.

"Two o'clock.--Armadale here as usual; eager to know when Midwinter will
be at his service. No definite answer to be given to the question yet,
seeing that it all depends on Midwinter's capacity to continue at his
desk. Armadale sat down disappointed; he yawned, and put his great
clumsy hands in his pockets. I took up a book. The brute didn't
understand that I wanted to be left alone; he began again on the
unendurable subject of Miss Milroy, and of all the fine things she
was to have when he married her. Her own riding-horse; her own
pony-carriage; her own beautifu