from indolence or discouragement. Now we may get on.
After an interval of a few days more I decided on making further

inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. This time, when I left my
card, I sent a message, asking if the lady could receive me.

Shall I own my weakness? She possesses all the information that I
want, and she has twice baffled my inquiries. Under these

humiliating circumstances, it is part of the priestly pugnacity
of my disposition to inquire again.

I was invited to go upstairs.
The front and back drawing-rooms of the house were thrown into

one. Mrs. Eyrecourt was being gently moved backward and forward
in a chair on wheels, propelled by her maid; two gentlemen being

present, visitors like myself. In spite of rouge and loosely
folded lace and flowing draperies, she presented a deplorable

spectacle. The bodily part of her looked like a dead woman,
painted and revived--while the moral part, in the strongest

contrast, was just as lively as ever.
"So glad to see you again, Father Benwell, and so much obliged by

your kind inquiries. I am quite well, though the doctor won't
admit it. Isn't it funny to see me being wheeled about, like a

child in a perambulator? Returning to first principles, I call
it. You see it's a law of my nature that I must go about. The

doctor won't let me go about outside the house, so I go about
inside the house. Matilda is the nurse, and I am the baby who

will learn to walk some of these days. Are you tired, Matilda?
No? Then give me another turn, there's a good creature. Movement,

perpetual movement, is a law of Nature. Oh, dear no, doctor; I
didn't make that discovery for myself. Some eminent scientific

person mentioned it in a lecture. The ugliest man I ever saw. Now
back again, Matilda. Let me introduce you to my friends, Father

Benwell. Introducing is out of fashion, I know. But I am one of
the few women who can resist the tyranny of fashion. I like

introducing people. Sir John Drone--Father Benwell. Father
Benwell--Doctor Wybrow. Ah, yes, you know the doctor by

reputation? Shall I give you his character? Personally charming;
professionally detestable. Pardon my impudence, doctor, it is one

of the consequences of the overflowing state of my health.
Another turn, Matilda--and a little faster this time. Oh, how I

wish I was traveling by railway!"
There, her breath failed her. She reclined in her chair, and

fanned herself silently--for a while.
I was now able to turn my attention to the two visitors. Sir John

Drone, it was easy to see, would be no obstacle to confidential
conversation with Mrs. Eyrecourt. An excellent country gentleman,

with the bald head, the ruddy complexion, and the inexhaustible
capacity for silence, so familiar to us in English society--there

you have the true description of Sir John. But the famous
physician was quite another sort of man. I had only to look at

him, and to feel myself condemned to small talk while _he_ was in
the room.

You have always heard of it in my correspondence, whenever I have
been in the wrong. I was in the wrong again now--I had forgotten

the law of chances. Capricious Fortune, after a long interval,
was about to declare herself again in my favor, by means of the

very woman who had twice already got the better of me. What a
recompense for my kind inquiries after Mrs. Eyrecourt! She

recovered breath enough to begin talking again.
"Dear me, how dull you are!" she said to us. "Why don't you amuse

a poor prisoner confined to the house? Rest a little, Matilda, or
you will be falling ill next. Doctor! is this your last

professional visit?"
"Promise to take care of yourself, Mrs. Eyrecourt, and I will

confess that the professional visits are over. I come here to-day
only as a friend."

"You best of men! Do me another favor. Enliven our dullness. Tell
us some interesting story about a patient. These great doctors,

Sir John, pass their lives in a perfect atmosphere of romance.
Dr. Wybrow's consulting-room is like your confessional, Father

Benwell. The most fascinating sins and sorrows are poured into
his ears. What is the last romance in real life, doctor, that has

asked you to treat it medically? We don't want names and
places--we are good children; we only want a story."

Dr. Wybrow looked at me with a smile.
"It is impossible to persuade ladies," he said, "that we, too,

are father-confessors in our way. The first duty of a doctor,
Mrs. Eyrecourt--"

"Is to cure people, of course," she interposed in her smartest
manner.

The doctor answered seriously. "No, indeed. That is only the
second duty. Our first duty is invariably to respect the

confidence of our patients. However," he resumed in his easier
tone, "I happen to have seen a patient to-day, under

circumstances which the rules of professional honor do not forbid
me to mention. I don't know, Mrs. Eyrecourt, whether you will

quite like to be introduced to the scene of the story. The scene
is in a madhouse."

Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out with a coquettish little scream, and
shook her fan at the doctor. "No horrors!" she cried. "The bare

idea of a madhouse distracts me with terror. Oh, fie, fie! I
won't listen to you--I won't look at you--I positively refuse to

be frightened out of my wits. Matilda! wheel me away to the
furthest end of the room. My vivid imagination, Father Benwell,

is my rock ahead in life. I declare I can _smell_ the odious
madhouse. Go straight to the window, Matilda; I want to bury my

nose among the flowers."
Sir John, upon this, spoke for the first time. His language

consisted entirely of beginnings of sentences, mutely completed
by a smile. "Upon my word, you know. Eh, Doctor Wybrow? A man of

your experience. Horrors in madhouses. A lady in delicate health.
No, really. Upon my honor, now, I cannot. Something funny, oh

yes. But such a subject, oh no."
He rose to leave us. Dr. Wybrow gently stopped him. "I had a

motive, Sir John," he said, "but I won't trouble you with
needless explanations. There is a person, unknown to me, whom I

want to discover. You are a great deal in society when you are in
London. May I ask if you have ever met with a gentleman named

Winterfield?"
I have always considered the power of self-control as one of the

strongest points in my character. For the future I shall be more
humble. When I heard that name, my surprise so completely

mastered me that I sat self-betrayed to Dr. Wybrow as the man who
could answer his question.

In the meanwhile, Sir John took his time to consider, and
discovered that he had never heard of a person named Winterfield.

Having acknowledged his ignorance, in his own eloquent language,
he drifted away to the window-box in the next room, and gravely

contemplated Mrs. Eyrecourt, with her nose buried in flowers.
The doctor turned to me. "Am I wrong, Father Benwell, in

supposing that I had better have addressed myself to _you?"_
I admitted that I knew a gentleman named Winterfield.

Dr. Wybrow got up directly. "Have you a few minutes to spare?" he
asked. It is needless to say that I was at the doctor's disposal.

"My house is close by, and my carriage is at the door," he
resumed. "When you feel inclined to say good-by to our friend

Mrs. Eyrecourt, I have something to say to you which I think you
ought to know."

We took our departure at once. Mrs. Eyrecourt (leaving some of
the color of her nose among the flowers) patted me encouragingly

with her fan, and told the doctor that he was forgiven, on the
understanding that he would "never do it again." In five minutes