telling me of the presence of a little
child in the house, and I have desired permission to see it by way of
diversion and occupation. I have asked her to apply to Dr. Englehart."

"The child shall come to you, Miss Monfort, whenever you wish," said
Mrs. Clayton, with ill-disguised eagerness. "This woman is not the
proper person to apply to, however, and it is natural you should feel
concerned about it, now that you are able to think and feel again. You
know, of course, it is the boy of the wreck."

"Yes, very natural. Its mother died in my arms, if I am not mistaken in
the identity of the child; and fortunately--" I paused here, arrested by
some strange instinct of prudence, and decided not to show further
interest in his fate.

He might be inquired for, and traced even, I reflected, and thus my own
existence be brought to light. Selfishly, as well as charitably, would I
cherish him. Little children had ever been a passion with me, but this
poor, repulsive thing was the "_dernier ressort_ of desolation."

That very evening I heard the husky and guttural voice of Dr. Englehart
in the adjoining chamber, or rather in the closet of Mrs. Clayton, a
mere anteroom originally, as it seemed, to the large apartment I
occupied.

It was very natural that in her ill condition my dragon should seek
medical aid, and I paid no further attention to the propinquity of this
unpleasant visitor than I could help--sitting quietly by my shaded lamp,
absorbed in the Psalter, in which I found nightly refuge.

He came in at last, after tapping very lightly on the door-panel,
unsolicited and unexpected, to my presence--the same inscrutable,
hirsute horror I had seen before, with his trudging, scraping walk, his
square and stalwart frame, his gloved extremities, his light,
blue-glasses, hat and cane in hand, a being as I felt to chill one's
very marrow.

"Is it true vat I hear," he asked, pausing at some distance, "dat you
vant to have dat leetle hompback chilt for a companion, Miss Monfort?"

"It is true, Dr. Englehart."

"And vat can your motif be? Heh? I must study dat for a leetle before I
can decide de question, or even trost him as a human being in your
hands."

"Lunatics are rarely governed by motives at all," I replied, "only
impulses. I want human companionship, however, that is all. I sicken in
this solitude--I am dying of mental inanition."

"It is true, you look delicate indeed, I am pained to see." The accent
was forgot