all it was quite dark, but she struck a match and lit
a cheap paraffin lamp which stood there in readiness, then led me
upstairs to a small sitting-room on the first floor, a dingy, stuffy
little place of a character which showed me that she and her father
lived in lodgings. Having set the lamp on the table, and saying that
she would go and acquaint the invalid with my arrival, she went out,
closing the door quietly after her. The room was evidently the home of
a studious, if poor, man, for in a small deal bookcase I noticed,
well-kept and well-arranged, a number of standard works on science
and theology, as well as various volumes which told me mutely that
their owner was a student, while upon the table lay a couple of
critical reviews, the "Saturday" and "Spectator."

I took up the latter and glanced it over in order to pass the time,
for my conductress seemed to be in consultation with her father. My
eye caught an article that interested me, and I read it through,
forgetting for a moment all about my call there. Fully ten minutes
elapsed, when of a sudden I heard the voice of a man speaking somewhat
indistinctly in a room above that in which I was sitting. He seemed to
be talking low and gruffly, so that I was unable to distinguish what
was said. At last, however, the girl returned, and, asking me to
follow her, conducted me to a bedroom on the next floor.

The only illumination was a single night-light burning in a saucer,
casting a faint, uncertain glimmer over everything, and shaded with an
open book so that the occupant of the bed lay in deepest shadow.
Unlike what one would have expected to find in such a house, an iron
bedstead with brass rail, the bed was a great old-fashioned one with
heavy wool damask hangings; and advancing towards it, while the girl
retired and closed the door after her, I bent down to see the invalid.

In the shadow I could just distinguish on the pillow a dark-bearded
face whose appearance was certainly not prepossessing.

"You are not well?" I said, inquiringly, as our eyes met in the dim
half-light. "Your daughter is distressed about you."

"Yes, I'm a bit queer," he growled. "But she needn't have bothered
you."

"Let me remove the shade from the light, so that I can see your face,"
I suggested. "It's too dark to see anything."

"No," he snapped; "I can't bear the light. You can see quite enough of
me here."

"Very well," I said, reluctantly, and taking his wrist in one hand I