THE morning sunlight shining in at a badly curtained window; aclumsy wooden bed, with big twisted posts that reached to theceiling; on one side of the bed, my mother's welcome face; on theother side, an elderly gentleman unremembered by me at thatmoment--such were the objects that presented themselves to myview, when I first consciously returned to the world that we livein.

"Look, doctor, look! He has come to his senses at last."

"Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup of this." My mother wasrejoicing over me on one side of the bed; and the unknowngentleman, addressed as "doctor," was offering me a spoonful ofwhisky-and-water on the other. He called it the "elixir of life";and he bid me remark (speaking in a strong Scotch accent) that hetasted it himself to show he was in earnest.

The stimulant did its good work. My head felt less giddy, my mindbecame clearer. I could speak collectedly to my mother; I couldvaguely recall the more marked events of the previous evening. Aminute or two more, and the image of the person in whom thoseevents had all centered became a living image in my memory. Itried to raise myself in the bed; I asked, impatiently, "Where isshe?"

The doctor produced another spoonful of the elixir of life, andgravely repeated his first address to me.

"Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup of this."

I persisted in repeating my question:

"Where is she?"

The doctor persisted in repeating his formula:

"Take a sup of this."

I was too weak to contest the matter; I obeyed. My medicalattendant nodded across the bed to my mother, and said, "Now,he'll do." My mother had some compassion on me. She relieved myanxiety in these plain words:

"The lady has quite recovered, George, thanks to the doctorhere."

I looked at my professional colleague with a new interest. He wasthe legitimate fountainhead of the information that I was dyingto have poured into my mind.

"How did you revive her?" I asked. "Where is she now?"

The doctor held up his hand, warning me to stop.

"We shall do well, sir, if we proceed systematically," he began,in a very positive manner. "You will understand, that every timeyou open your mouth, it will be to take a sup of this, and not tospeak. I shall tell you, in due course, and the good lady, yourmother, will tell you, all that you have any need to know. As Ihappen to have been first on what you may call the scene ofaction, it stands in the fit order of things that I should speakfirst. You will just permit me to mix a little more of the elixirof life, and then, as the poet says, my plain unvarnished tale Ishall deliver."

So he spoke, pronouncing in his strong Scotch accent the mostcarefully selected English I had ever heard. A hard-headed,square-shouldered, pertinaciously self-willed man--it was plainlyuseless to contend with him. I turned to my mother's gentle facefor encouragement; and I let my doctor have his own way.

"My name," he proceeded, "is MacGlue. I had the honor ofpresenting my respects at your house yonder when you first cameto live in this neighborhood. You don't remember me at present,which is natural enough in the unbalanced condition of your mind,consequent, you will understand (as a professional personyourself) on copious loss of blood."

There my patience gave way.

"Never mind me!" I interposed. "Tell me about the lady!"

"You have opened your mouth, sir!" cried Mr. MacGlue, severely."You know the penalty--take a sup of this. I told you we shouldproceed systematically," he went on, after he had forced me tosubmit to the penalty. "Everything in its place, Mr.Germaine--everything in its place. I was speaking of your bodilycondition. Well, sir, and how did I discover your bodilycondition? Providentially for _you_ I was driving home yesterdayevening by the lower road (which is the road by the river bank),and, drawing near to the inn here (they call it a hotel; it'snothing but an inn), I heard the screeching of the landlady halfa mile off. A good woman enough, you will understand, as timesgo; but a poor creature in any emergency. Keep still, I'm comingto it now. Well, I went in to see if the screeching related toanything wanted in the medical way; and there I found you and thestranger lady in a position which I may truthfully describe asstanding in some need of improvement on the score of propriety.Tut! tut! I speak jocosely--you were both in a dead swoon. Havingheard what the landlady had to tell me, and having, to the bestof my ability, separated history from hysterics in the course ofthe woman's narrative, I found myself, as it were, placed betweentwo laws. The law of gallantry, you see, pointed to the lady asthe first object of my professional services, while the law ofhumanity (seeing that you were still bleeding) pointed no lessimperatively to you. I am no longer a young man: I left the ladyto wait. My word! it was no light matter, Mr. Germaine, to dealwith your case, and get you carried up here out of the way. Thatold wound of yours, sir, is not to be trifled with. I bid youbeware how you open it again. The next time you go out for anevening walk and you see a lady in the water, you will do wellfor your own health to leave her there. What's that I see? Areyou opening your mouth again? Do you want another sup already?"

"He wants to hear more about the lady," said my mother,interpreting my wishes for me.

"Oh, the lady," resumed Mr. MacGlue, with the air of a man whofound no great attraction in the subject proposed to him."There's not much that I know of to be said about the lady. Afine woman, no doubt. If you could strip the flesh off her bones,you would find a splendid skeleton underneath. For, mind this!there's no such thing as a finely made woman without a good bonyscaffolding to build her on at starting. I don't think much ofthis lady--morally speaking, you will understand. If I may bepermitted to say so in your presence, ma'am, there's a man in thebackground of that dramatic scene of hers on the bridge. However,not being the man myself, I have nothing to do with that. Mybusiness with the lady was just to set her vital machinery goingagain. And, Heaven knows, she proved a heavy handful! It was evena more obstinate case to deal with, sir, than yours. I never, inall my experience, met with two people more unwilling to comeback to this world and its troubles than you two were. And when Ihad done the business at last, when I was wellnigh swooningmyself with the work and the worry of it, guess--I give you leaveto speak for this once--guess what were the first words the, ladysaid to me when she came to herself again."

I was too much excited to be able to exercise my ingenuity. "Igive it up!" I said, impatiently.

"You may well give it up," remarked Mr. MacGlue. "The first wordsshe addressed, sir, to the man who had dragged herout of the very jaws of death were these: 'How dare you meddlewith me? why didn't you leave me to die?' Her exactlanguage--I'll take my Bible oath of it. I was so provoked that Igave her the change back (as the saying is) in her own coin.'There's the river handy, ma'am,' I said; 'do it again. I, forone, won't stir a hand to save you; I promise you that.' Shelooked up sharply. 'Are you the man who took me out of theriver?' she said. 'God forbid!' says I. 'I'm only the doctor whowas fool enough to meddle with you afterward.' She turned to thelandlady. 'Who took me out of the river?' she asked. The landladytold her, and mentioned your name. 'Germaine?' she said toherself; 'I know nobody named Germaine; I wonder whether it wasthe man who spoke to me on the bridge?' 'Yes,' says the landlady;'Mr. Germaine said he met you on the bridge.' Hearing that, shetook a little time to think; and then she asked if she could seeMr. Germaine. 'Whoever he is,' she says, 'he has risked his lifeto save me, and I ought to thank him for doing that.' 'You can'tthank him tonight,' I said; 'I've got him upstairs between lifeand death, and I've sent for his mother: wait till to-morrow.'She turned on me, looking half frightened, half angry. 'I can'twait,' she says; 'you don't know what you have done among you inbringing me back to life. I must leave this neighborhood; I mustbe out of Perthshire to-morrow: when does the first coachsouthward pass this way?' Having nothing to do with the firstcoach southward, I referred her to the people of the inn. Mybusiness (now I had done with the lady) was upstairs in thisroom, to see how you were getting on. You were getting on as wellas I could wish, and your mother was at your bedside. I went hometo see what sick people might be waiting for me in the regularway. When I came back this morning, there was the foolishlandlady with a new tale to tell 'Gone!' says she. 'Who's gone?'says I. 'The lady,' says she, 'by the first coach this morning!'"

"You don't mean to tell me that she has left the house?" Iexclaimed.

"Oh, but I do!" said the doctor, as positively as ever. "Askmadam your mother here, and she'll certify it to your heart'scontent. I've got other sick ones to visit, and I'm away on myrounds. You'll see no more of the lady; and so much the better,I'm thinking. In two hours' time I'll be back again; and if Idon't find you the worse in the interim, I'll see about havingyou transported from this strange place to the snug bed thatknows you at home. Don't let him talk, ma'am, don't let himtalk."

With those parting words, Mr. MacGlue left us to ourselves.

"Is it really true?" I said to my mother. "Has she left the inn,without waiting to see me?"

"Nobody could stop her, George," my mother answered. "The ladyleft the inn this morning by the coach for Edinburgh."

I was bitterly disappointed. Yes: "bitterly" is the word--thoughshe _was_ a stranger to me.

"Did you see her yourself?" I asked.

"I saw her for a few minutes, my dear, on my way up to yourroom."

"What did she say?"

"She begged me to make her excuses to you. She said, 'Tell Mr.Germaine that my situation is dreadful; no human creature canhelp me. I must go away. My old life is as much at an end as ifyour son had left me to drown in the river. I must find a newlife for myself, in a new place. Ask Mr. Germaine to forgive mefor going away without thanking him. I daren't wait! I may befollowed and found out. There is a person whom I am determinednever to see again--never! never! never! Good-by; and try toforgive me!' She hid her face in her hands, and said no more. Itried to win her confidence; it was not to be done; I wascompelled to leave her. There is some dreadful calamity, George,in that wretched woman's life. And such an interesting creature,too! It was impossible not to pity her, whether she deserved itor not. Everything about her is a mystery, my dear. She speaksEnglish without the slightest foreign accent, and yet she has aforeign name."

"Did she give you her name?"

"No, and I was afraid to ask her to give it. But the landladyhere is not a very scrupulous person. She told me she looked atthe poor creature's linen while it was drying by the fire. Thename marked on it was, 'Van Brandt.' "

"Van Brandt?" I repeated. "That sounds like a Dutch name. And yetyou say she spoke like an Englishwoman. Perhaps she was born inEngland."

"Or perhaps she may be married," suggested my mother; "and VanBrandt may be the name of her husband."

The idea of her being a married woman had something in itrepellent to me. I wished my mother had not thought of that lastsuggestion. I refused to receive it. I persisted in my own beliefthat the stranger was a single woman. In that character, I couldindulge myself in the luxury of thinking of her; I could considerthe chances of my being able to trace this charming fugitive, whohad taken so strong a hold on my interest--whose desperateattempt at suicide had so nearly cost me my own life.

If she had gone as far as Edinburgh (which she would surely do,being bent on avoiding discovery), the prospect of finding heragain--in that great city. and in my present weak state ofhealth--looked doubtful indeed. Still, there was an underlyinghopefulness in me which kept my spirits from being seriouslydepressed. I felt a purely imaginary (perhaps I ought to say, apurely superstitious) conviction that we who had nearly diedtogether, we who had been brought to life together, were surelydestined to be involved in some future joys or sorrows common tous both. "I fancy I shall see her again," was my last thoughtbefore my weakness overpowered me, and I sunk into a peacefulsleep.

That night I was removed from the inn to my own room at home; andthat night I saw her again in a dream.

The image of her was as vividly impressed on me as the fardifferent image of the child Mary, when I used to see it in thedays of old. The dream-figure of the woman was robed as I hadseen it robed on the bridge. She wore the same broad-brimmedgarden-hat of straw. She looked at me as she had looked when Iapproached her in the dim evening light. After a little her facebrightened with a divinely beautiful smile; and she whispered inmy ear, "Friend, do you know me?"

I knew her, most assuredly; and yet it was with anincomprehensible after-feeling of doubt. Recognizing her in mydream as the stranger who had so warmly interested me, I was,nevertheless, dissatisfied with myself, as if it had not been theright recognition. I awoke with this idea; and I slept no morethat night.

In three days' time I was strong enough to go out driving with mymother, in the comfortable, old-fashioned, open carriage whichhad once belonged to Mr. Germaine.

On the fourth day we arranged to make an excursion to a littlewaterfall in our neighborhood. My mother had a great admirationof the place, and had often expressed a wish to possess somememorial of it. I resolved to take my sketch-book: with me, onthe chance that I might be able to please her by making a drawingof her favorite scene.

Searching for the sketch-book (which I had not used for years), Ifound it in an old desk of mine that had remained unopened sincemy departure for India. In the course of my investigation, Iopened a drawer in the desk, and discovered a relic of the oldtimes--my poor little Mary's first work in embroidery, the greenflag!

The sight of the forgotten keepsake took my mind back to thebailiff's cottage, and reminded me of Dame Dermody, and herconfident prediction about Mary and me.

I smiled as I recalled the old woman's assertion that no humanpower could "hinder the union of the kindred spirits of thechildren in the time to come." What had become of the prophesieddreams in which we were to communicate with each other throughthe term of our separation? Years had passed; and, sleeping orwaking, I had seen nothing of Mary. Years had passed; and thefirst vision of a woman that had come to me had been my dream afew nights since of the stranger whom I had saved from drowning.I thought of these chances and changes in my life, but notcontemptuously or bitterly. The new love that was now stealingits way into my heart had softened and humanized me. I said tomyself, "Ah, poor little Mary!" and I kissed the green flag, ingrateful memory of the days that were gone forever.

We drove to the waterfall.

It was a beautiful day; the lonely sylvan scene was at itsbrightest and best. A wooden summer-house, commanding a prospectof the falling stream, had been built for the accommodation ofpleasure parties by the proprietor of the place. My mothersuggested that I should try to make a sketch of the view fromthis point. I did my best to please her, but I was not satisfiedwith the result; and I abandoned my drawing before it was halffinished. Leaving my sketch-book and pencil on the table of thesummer-house, I proposed to my mother to cross a little woodenbridge which spanned the stream, below the fall, and to see howthe landscape looked from a new point of view.

The prospect of the waterfall, as seen from the opposite bank,presented even greater difficulties, to an amateur artist likeme, than the prospect which he had just left. We returned to thesummer-house.

I was the first to approach the open door. I stopped, checked inmy advance by an unexpected discovery. The summer-house was nolonger empty as we had left it. A lady was seated at the tablewith my pencil in her hand, writing in my sketch-book!

After waiting a moment, I advanced a few steps nearer to thedoor, and stopped again in breathless amazement. The stranger inthe summer-house was now plainly revealed to me as the woman whohad attempted to destroy herself from the bridge!

There was no doubt about it. There was the dress; there was thememorable face which I had seen in the evening light, which I haddreamed of only a few nights since! The woman herself--I saw heras plainly as I saw the sun shining on the waterfall--the womanherself, with my pencil in her hand, writing in my book!

My mother was close behind me. She noticed my agitation."George!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter with you?"

I pointed through the open door of the summer-house.

"Well?" said my mother. "What am I to look at?"

"Don't you see somebody sitting at the table and writing in mysketch-book?"

My mother eyed me quickly. "Is he going to be ill again?" I heardher say to herself.

At the same moment the woman laid down the pencil and rose slowlyto her feet.

She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes: she lifted herhand and beckoned me to approach her. I obeyed. Moving withoutconscious will of my own, drawn nearer and nearer to her by anirresistible power, I ascended the short flight of stairs whichled into the summer-house. Within a few paces of her I stopped.She advanced a step toward me, and laid her hand gently on mybosom. Her touch filled me with strangely united sensations ofrapture and awe. After a while, she spoke in low melodious tones,which mingled in my ear with the distant murmur of the fallingwater, until the two sounds became one. I heard in the murmur, Iheard in the voice, these words: "Remember me. Come to me." Herhand dropped from my bosom; a momentary obscurity passed like aflying shadow over the bright daylight in the room. I looked forher when the light came back. She was gone.

My consciousness of passing events returned.

I saw the lengthening shadows outside, which told me that theevening was at hand. I saw the carriage approaching thesummerhouse to take us away. I felt my mother's hand on my arm,and heard her voice speaking to me anxiously. I was able to replyby a sign entreating her not to be uneasy about me, but I coulddo no more. I was absorbed, body and soul, in the one desire tolook at the sketch-book. As certainly as I had seen the woman, socertainly I had seen her, with my pencil in her hand, writing inmy book.

I advanced to the table on which the book was lying open. Ilooked at the blank space on the lower part of the page, underthe foreground lines of my unfinished drawing. My mother,following me, looked at the page too.

There was the writing! The woman had disappeared, but there wereher written words left behind her: visible to my mother as wellas to me, readable by my mother's eyes as well as by mine!

These were the words we saw, arranged in two lines, as I copythem here:

When the full moon shinesOn Saint Anthony's Well.