Thus I mused, but suddenly I said, "You
will not mind taking a little light physic, will you?" "What! to make me well!" she exclaimed. "To imprison my spirit within
my body, as you have done Charles'. But stay, if I take your physic, it
will not be yet. I will wait to see if Charles is really lost to me for
ever. If he does not appear again all this week, then his spirit has no
longer power to wander from the body, and if he is lost to me, why
should I wander about in the spirit seeking him in vain? I might just as
well be cured as not." "Very well," I said; "then, for the present it is needless to administer
any medicine?" "Not at present, doctor," she said. I took up my hat to go, and said that I would call again soon and would
bring her tidings of Charles; that I was going there straight from her. "Stay, stay," she said. "You have told me nothing about him as yet." "Well, my dear young lady," I said, "I really do not know what to tell
you about him. Like yourself, he refused to take my medicine, and----"

"What, he refused! Then how is it that he is getting well? That he does
not appear to me now? Doctor, you have had something administered on the
sly. I know it. I see it in your face;" and the look that she gave me
was so penetrating, that I quite quailed under it, and was obliged to
admit that I had. "And you are going to try the same trick with me. Oh! oh!" Here she groaned, and threw herself forward on the bed in agony. "My dear Miss Edith," I said, compassionately, "calm yourself; pray
reflect. I can't, I daren't leave you to die. Be persuaded, and take
only a little harmless, quieting medicine, not nauseous to the taste,
and which may not have the effect of making you cease to dream." But my fair patient was not to be persuaded, so, with hat in hand, I
made another step towards the door. "Stay, doctor," she said; "whatever you do, keep our conversation secret
from the people of the house." "Certainly," said I. "Has it not been under the 'seal of confession!'" "True, true," she said; "and, doctor--would you mind--if you are really
going to call upon--Charles, to--to--take a relic to him of me?" "Not at all," I said. "On the contrary, I should be most happy; but--" I
said, after a moment's reflection, "but--your parents--would they
object, do you think?" "Oh, don't be afraid, doctor," she replied. "I am very independent, and
as for yourself, your name needn't get mixed up in the transaction." Here she reached a pair of scissors, and severed one of her long ebony
tresses, which she handed to me with these words:

"Take this," she said, "to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith sends him
this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit." I promised I would do as she desired, and shaking hands with her, I left
the apartment. My friend and his wife awaited me in the parlour, and asked me my
opinion of their daughter's case. I gave them hope of her recovery; but
told them that she had positively refused to take any of my medicines,
and I therefore adopted the same man[oe]uvre that I had adopted with
Charles, and was forced to leave the medicine to be administered
clandestinely. I wrote out a prescription and left the house, saying I
would call again in a day or two. I took the mail that evening, and
started for London. Finding myself at length arrived in the great
metropolis, my first thought was to call upon Charles. As I entered his chamber the expression on my patient's countenance was
one of deepest melancholy. When he first caught sight of me I thought he
looked suspicious, and was going to turn away, but as I approached him
his countenance altogether changed, and grew so bright and radiant, that
he did not look the same man. He had never welcomed me before in this
way, and his manner puzzled me. "Oh, doctor," he cried, in tones of the greatest joy, "is it possible
you have seen her? I know you have; I can't be mistaken." "Seen who?" I asked, smiling. "Come, doctor," he said "you know all about it; don't pretend to
ignore----"

"Ignore what?" I enquired, with provoking pertinacity. "Oh, doctor, doctor! you'll drive me mad," exclaimed my patient. "Tell
me all about her at once, and keep me no longer in suspense. Oh, Edith! Edith! I feel your presence. Come, doctor, tell me about _Edith_." "What Edith?" I exclaimed. "Are there not many of that name? It is true
I _do_ come from a young lady patient whose name _happens_ to be Edith. What then?" "The same! I knew it, I knew it," he cried. "Tell me all about her,
doctor; you have seen her, and spoken to her. Oh! we may yet meet in the
flesh, even if she be denied me in the spirit. Did you tell her of my
case, doctor?" I nodded my head. "I told her," said I, "that I was attending a young man whose symptoms
very much resembled her own. Oh! I had a long talk with her, I assure
you; and what do you think she wants of me?" I asked. "Why, she was
actually unfeeling enough to ask me not to cure you; she was, indeed." "My own dear Edith!" he exclaimed. "Of course she doesn't want me cured;
and, doctor, if you would do both her and me a kindness, don't--oh,
don't--cure her." "Well, you're an amiable couple, I'm fancying," said I. "I wonder
whether there are many more such loving couples in the world as you
two." "Well, doctor," he said, smiling, "have you any more news for me?" "Perhaps I may have," I answered, mysteriously. "What should you say if
she entrusted me with a present to you?" "A present from _her_! Oh, doctor, don't trifle with me. Is it really
so?" Hereupon I thrust my hand into my pocket, and produced the lock of hair,
wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper. He made a snatch at it with his
long lean fingers, and tearing it open, exclaimed, "_Her_ hair! I could
swear to it anywhere. What did she say, doctor, when she gave this into
your hands?" "She said," said I, "'Take this to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith
sends him this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit.'" "Bless her! bless her!" he cried, enthusiastically kissing the relic
repeatedly and pressing it to his heart. I allowed this transport to pass well over before I spoke again. At
length I enquired how he had passed the night. "Badly," he replied, sulkily. "What! have you not felt quieter, more composed?" "Oh, yes," he answered; "you don't suppose that I am ignorant that you
have been drugging me?" he said, casting at me a look of reproach. "Drugging you?" I exclaimed. "Yes; did you think I couldn't taste that stuff that you got my parents
to give me through all its disguise? Do you think I did not feel its
influence?" "A salutary influence only, I hope," I answered, being forced at length
to admit the stratagem that I had felt it my duty to adopt. "What you would call a salutary influence," he retorted. "But do you
know," he added, almost fiercely, "that you have robbed me of those
dreams that constituted the better part of my life? In fact, my _real_,
my _only_ life." "I am sorry for that," I remarked.