My convalescence was slower than might have been expected, and a weakness which infected my limbs prevented me from taking needful exercise; the weather, indeed, was variable, and but seldom so fair as to allow me to be much abroad. I was, in consequence, without being absolutely confined to the house, rather too much at home.

One day, when the morning happened to be exceedingly showery, this was the case, and it so chanced that during the forenoon no one called. Application to any sort of study was at the time oppressive, insomuch that after making several attempts to read a pious book called “Margaret Linsay,” I let down the curtains, and laid myself down on the bed.

I must have soon fallen asleep, for I had no consciousness when I awoke of having heard any noise, but on looking up, I beheld, as it were, a vision of Mr. Woodriffe from London at the bedside, lifting the curtain. He was pale, meagre, and death-like, but the glow of the crimson curtain shed a supernatural bloom on his countenance that ill accorded with his emaciated features.

In the first moment, thinking it a dream, I turned round, but he spoke, and I instantly started up.

“You are surprised to see me here in this plight,” said he; and before I could make any reply, he added, “I have been very unwell since you left town, and the doctors have advised me to try the effect of a change of air.