"And sure, sir, you're not far out there neither; for if there's one
thing more like witchcraft than another, it is that same _love_. Lor',
bless yer, sir, don't I remember when I was courtin' my Poll, how I'd
stand under her winder of a rainy night for hours, just to get a peep at
her shadow on the winder blind, and how I'd go for days without my beer,
till folks didn't know what to make of me? Ah! but I got over it,
though, in time. I got cured, but" (here he gave me a knowing look) "it
wasn't by a _doctor_. No, sir, it wasn't by a _doctor_," he said, with a
contemptuous emphasis on the last word. "Now, who do you think it was by, sir, that I got cured?" he asked. "I haven't the slightest idea," I replied, dryly, disgusted at the man's
manner. "Why, the _Parson_! to be sure," he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!" giving me a dig
in the ribs with his undeveloped thumb. "Yes, sir, the parson beat the
doctor out and out in that ere business. He, he!" I dare say the joke was very witty, but I was in no humour for laughing
just then; yet, after all, he did not know I was a doctor, so I
condescended to give a grin, a spasmodic grin like that a corpse may be
supposed to give when the risible muscles are set in motion by the wires
of a galvanic battery. He then began to relate to me some of the many superstitions afloat
concerning the above-mentioned lady, till I grew curious to make the
acquaintance of my new patient. In the middle of one of his long
stories, he pointed out to me the house of my friend Squire L----, so I
descended and walked up the hill leading to his house. Arrived there, I rang, and was shown into the parlour, and upon giving
my name, was soon cordially received by my old friend. We had not met
for years. He had much to tell me, and seemed very much concerned about
the health of his adopted daughter, whom he loved as if she had been his
own flesh and blood. His wife soon entered, and having expressed much pleasure at seeing me
after so long, began giving me the peculiar symptoms of the lady's case. "I do not know what to make of her, my dear doctor," she said; "for a
whole year past she has not been the same girl. She will not eat, nor
see anyone; seems quite estranged towards us, gets nervous and irritable
if anyone approaches her; sleeps much and talks much during her sleep,
and frequently imagines in her dream that she is holding conversation
with a young man whom she addresses as Charles." I started. The lady and her husband both noticed my emotion, and
inquired into its cause. I told them that the case of their adopted
daughter so nearly resembled the case of a young man in London whom I
was still in the habit of attending, that the similarity of the symptoms
struck me with no little surprise. "Indeed, doctor," said the lady. "Is it possible that there can be two
such extraordinary cases in the world?" I mused a little, and then observed, "You do not think, do you, that the
first cause of this strange malady was some little affair of the
heart?" "Oh, dear no, doctor," she replied. "I am certain of it. The girl has
never had the opportunity of forming the acquaintance of any young men. She has never left this village in her life, though she has often begged
me to take her to London; but somehow I----"

"What! you say she has never been to London--not even for a day?" "Never," she replied. I began musing to myself, when I was interrupted from my train of
thought by the voice of the patient calling out, in agonising tones,
"Charles! Charles!" "Edith, my love! what _is_ the matter?" cried Mrs. L----, rising and
leaving the room. "Edith!" I muttered to myself. "How strange! What a strange link between
the two cases." I did not know what to make of it all. However, I kept
the particulars of Charles' case to myself for the present, and
determined to investigate the matter closely. "Can I see the patient?" I asked of my old friend. "Certainly; we will go together," he said. "Thank you, but I should prefer a private interview with her, if
possible. Patients sometimes will not be communicative to the doctor in
presence of others, even though they be their own relations. It is
always my plan to----"

"Ah, exactly, doctor," he replied; "but I am afraid she will not give
you a very warm reception." "Oh," I replied, "as to that, I am accustomed to the very worst of
receptions from some of my patients." My friend led me to the chamber of the young lady, whom I discovered in
bed, propped up by cushions, talking to Mrs. L----. "This is Dr. Bleedem, my love," said the squire. "Now, don't be shy, but
tell him all that you feel the matter with you. I shall leave him alone
with you. Don't be nervous; he is a very old friend of mine." Then, beckoning to his wife, he drew her away, and left me alone with my
patient. The first thing that struck me upon entering the chamber was the
remarkable likeness my new patient bore to Charles. They might well have
been brother and sister, though the hair of Edith was dark and her eyes
a deep grey. The features were wonderfully alike, and the eyes had that
same strange unearthly expression I have already described as belonging
to Charles. Contrary to my expectations, she received me most civilly;
very differently to the manner in which I was treated by Charles on our
first interview. I was at a loss to account for this, as my friend had
warned me not to hope for a very warm reception. "Oh, doctor!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you have come. Your presence
brings me relief. You are the only person whose sight I have been able
to tolerate for this last year and more." I was thunderstruck. What could she mean? "Some caprice, I suppose. Perhaps my old friend has been putting in a good word for me." "No, doctor," she said, answering to my thoughts in a manner that
perfectly amazed me; "no; it is not as you think. The squire never told
me until this moment that you were an old friend of his. It is not for
that that I feel myself drawn towards you by some almost unaccountable
sympathy; but, to tell you the truth, doctor, I have long felt the want
of someone to confide in, and you are just the one; you must forgive my
boldness, if it offends you, whom I should like to make my father
confessor." I smiled at the innocent want of restraint with which she uttered these
words, and said I should be most happy to fulfil the office. "Should you, doctor?" she replied. "Well, I shall be most unreserved
towards you, and I hope you will return the compliment, and tell me all
it is in your power to communicate." I looked surprised, and asked, "Of what--of whom would you hear?" "Doctor," she said, fixing upon me those deep grey orbs, with a glance
that seemed to read my inmost soul, "do not deceive me; you _know_ that
you have been with _him_." "Who can she mean?" I mentally asked. "Can she mean Charles?" "Yes," she answered to my thought, "with _him_--with _Charles_. Hide
nothing from me, doctor.