There, stretched upon a wretched pallet,
lay the squalid and emaciated form of an old woman, whom, after some
difficulty, Mrs. ---- recognised as the monthly nurse who attended her
four and twenty years ago, during her confinement. "Who are you?" asked Mrs. ----. "Look at me. Do you recollect me now?" inquired the hag. "How should I? I never saw you before. Stay, your features seem to grow
more familiar to me, now my eyes get accustomed to the light. Is it
possible you can be Sarah Maclean, the midwife who----"

"The same," responded the hag. "What would you of me?" inquired Mrs. ----. "I have a communication to make before I die," said the old woman. "Listen." And she began her confession in feeble tones, thus:

"You were not aware, ma'am, that the day before your son was born, I
myself was confined with twins--a boy and a girl. Being called upon the
next day to attend upon you, I waited to see if your child were a male
child or a female. Finding that it was a man-child, I took advantage of
the agony I saw you were in, deeming that my act would never be
discovered. I managed to conceal my own child under my shawl, and so
contrived to substitute my child for your own." "Wretch!" cried Mrs. ----, gasping. "Stay; hear me out. I've got more to tell," continued the hag. "Your own
son died shortly after you had given him birth, through my neglect--I
admit it." "Murderess!" screamed Mrs. ----. "Bear with me yet awhile," said the midwife, "while I have still breath
left to confess all. I wished that one of my children should do well in
the world, and I adopted the stratagem I have just confessed to you. "As for my other child, being a girl, I was anxious to get her off my
hands as soon as possible, so I left her at the foot of a tree near
Stratford-on-Avon, where I myself was born." "What have I to do with all your other crimes, wicked woman?" exclaimed
Mrs. ----. "They rest between yourself and your Maker. Spare me further
confession." "Stay awhile yet," said the old woman, in still feebler tones. "My
second crime concerns you perhaps in scarce a less degree than my first. My daughter, as I heard afterwards, was picked up by a certain Squire
L----, and, having no children of his own, it is likely he will make her
his heiress." "What!" cried Mrs. ----; "then Miss L----, who is engaged to my son--at
least to--to is, in fact, your--your daughter? Then they are twin
brother and sister!" and Mrs. ---- fell back in hysterics. "Wretch! Infamous woman!" cried Mrs. ----, scarcely recovered from her
fit. But when she gazed again at the withered form before her, behold
the evil spirit had left its tenement. Sarah Maclean was no more. When Mrs. ---- returned home, she communicated the mournful tidings to
Charles and Edith, who were together at the time--tidings which, of
course, put a stop to their union. They both received the news in a state of stupefaction. Neither wept. Their grief was too deeply seated to give vent to itself in tears. They
could not, after having loved each other as they had loved, look upon
each other in the light of brother and sister, and as their union was
impossible, they agreed that it would be better to part at once and for
ever. They embraced and parted, each vowing never to love again. That
night both were stricken with a violent fever, and on the night of
October 12th, at the midnight hour, the spirits of both lovers were
released from their mortal tenements. Let us hope that they are now at
rest! *       *       *       *       *

Two years after the death of Charles and Edith, finding myself in the
neighbourhood of my old friend Squire L----, I called at the house. He
was glad to see me, as usual; but I thought he looked very much aged. The death of his adopted daughter, whom he loved tenderly, had been a
great blow to him. I should not have liked to touch upon a subject so
painful, had he not broached the matter first himself, and asked me if I
had heard of the circumstances that led to the death of Edith and her
lover. I replied that I had heard all from Charles' mother. "And who do you think that Edith and Charles turned out to be?" he
asked. "Why, lineal descendants of the great bard of Avon," he said. "Is it indeed so?" said I. "Yes," he replied; "after the death of my poor Edith I was curious to
know something about her real mother. I made inquiries into her
pedigree, and the report I heard from more than one quarter was--well,
it is a long story; and, at some future time, when we are not likely to
be interrupted, I may relate it to you. Suffice it to say, that the
descent of Charles and Edith may be distinctly traced from our great
Bard, William Shakespeare." "Strange," I observed. "It is not impossible that some of the great
poet's genius might have run in the veins of Charles. He always
impressed me as a young man of great intellect. He might have been
something had he lived." "Oh, yes," replied my friend; "I am certain of it. He was a very
promising young man; and there was Edith, as full of genius as she could
be, poor child. I tell you, doctor, it was marvellous what that girl had
in her." "Oh, I believe it," I said. "There was something extremely intelligent
in her expression, if I may use the word; perhaps I ought to say,
intellectual and poetical. Well, genius, though seldom inherited from
father to son, rarely dies out of the family altogether, but often,
after lying dormant for generations, breaks out again in some form or
another, like certain diseases." "Yes, doctor," said my friend; "I have observed the fact myself, and how
seldom do we find genius unaccompanied with disease. Do you know,
doctor, I often thank Heaven that I am no genius?" [Illustration]


CHAPTER III. CONTAINING MR. PARNASSUS'S POEM, THE GLACIER KING. At the conclusion of Dr. Bleedem's narrative he was highly complimented
by his audience, and various were the comments upon his recital. The
chairman declared himself unable to decide as to which of the two
stories related that evening was the more marvellous. The host of the "Headless Lady" vowed he had never heard such a tale in
all his life before, though he knew a good story or two himself. Mr.
Oldstone proposed the health of the doctor, which was drunk accordingly,
amid cheers. He responded to it in a short speech, when the old Dutch
clock in the corner struck one. The president rose and addressed the
club thus:

"Gentlemen, we have listened to two most interesting stories; but time
flies--the clock has announced the commencement of another day. I regret
that, on account of the length of the first two narratives, we shall be
prevented from hearing a story from everyone; yet I should be loth to
break up this very pleasant meeting without hearing _one_ more recital.