ong digression, you can understand my
surprise at seeing broad gleams of light reaching out into the darkness
from the windows of that north-west chamber, as I breasted the storm
on my way to visit the sick child of Mary Jones. No wonder that I stood
still and looked up at those windows, though the rain beat into my face,
half blinding me. The shutters were thrown open, and the curtains drawn
partly aside. I plainly saw shadows on the ceiling and walls as of
persons moving about the room. Did my eyes deceive me? Was not that the
figure of a young girl that stood for a moment at the window trying to
pierce with her eyes the thick veil of night? I was still in doubt when
the figure turned away, and only gave me a shadow on the wall.

I lingered in front of the old house for some minutes, but gaining no
intelligence of what was passing within, I kept on my way to the
humbler dwelling of Mary Jones. I found her child quite ill, and needing
attention. After doing what, in my judgment, the case required, I turned
my steps towards the house of Mrs. Wallingford to look into the case
of her son Henry, who, according to her account, was in a very unhappy
condition.

I went a little out of my way so as to go past the Allen House again.
As I approached, my eyes were directed to the chamber windows at the
north-west corner, and while yet some distance away, as the old elms
tossed their great limbs about in struggling with the storm, I saw
glancing out between them the same cheery light that met my astonished
gaze a little while before. As then, I saw shadows moving on the walls,
and once the same slender, graceful figure--evidently that of a young
girl--came to the window and tried to look out into the deep darkness.

As there was nothing to be gained by standing there in the drenching
storm, I moved onward, taking the way to Mrs. Wallingford's dwelling. I
had scarcely touched the knocker when the door was opened, and by Mrs.
Wallingford herself.

"Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you've come!" she said in a low, troubled
voice.

I stepped in out of the rain, gave her my dripping umbrella, and laid
off my overcoat.

"How is Henry now?" I asked.

She put her finger to her lip, and said, in a whisper,

"Just the same, Doctor--just the same. Listen! Don't you hear him
walking the floor overhead? I've tried to get him to take a cup of tea,
but he won't touch any thing. All I can get out of him is--'Mother--dear
mother--leave me to myse