SIX months have elapsed. Summer-time has come again.

The last parting is over. Prolonged by my care, the days of mymother's life have come to their end. She has died in my arms:her last words have been spoken to me, her last look on earth hasbeen mine. I am now, in the saddest and plainest meaning of thewords, alone in the world.

The affliction which has befallen me has left certain duties tobe performed that require my presence in London. My house is let;I am staying at a hotel. My friend, Sir James (also in London onbusiness), has rooms near mine. We breakfast and dine together inmy sitting-room. For the moment solitude is dreadful to me, andyet I cannot go into society; I shrink from persons who are mereacquaintances. At Sir James's suggestion, however, one visitor atthe hotel has been asked to dine with us, who claims distinctionas no ordinary guest. The physician who first warned me of thecritical state of my mother's health is anxious to hear what Ican tell him of her last moments. His time is too precious to bewasted in the earlier hours of the day, and he joins us at thedinner-table when his patients leave him free to visit hisfriends.

The dinner is nearly at an end. I have made the effort topreserve my self-control; and in few words have told the simplestory of my mother's last peaceful days on earth. Theconversation turns next on topics of little interest to me: mymind rests after the effort that it has made; my observation isleft free to exert itself as usual.

Little by little, while the talk goes on, I observe something inthe conduct of the celebrated physician which first puzzles me,and then arouses my suspicion of some motive for his presencewhich has not been acknowledged, and in which I am concerned.

Over and over again I discover that his eyes are resting on mewith a furtive interest and attention which he seems anxious toconceal. Over and over again I notice that he contrives to divertthe conversation from general topics, and to lure me into talkingof myself; and, stranger still (unless I am quite mistaken), SirJames understands and encourages him. Under various pretenses Iam questioned about what I have suffered in the past, and whatplans of life I have formed for the future. Among other subjectsof personal interest to me, the subject of supernaturalappearances is introduced. I am asked if I believe in occultspiritual sympathies, and in ghostly apparitions of dead ordistant persons. I am dexterously led into hinting that my viewson this difficult and debatable question are in some degreeinfluenced by experiences of my own. Hints, however, are notenough to satisfy the doctor's innocent curiosity; he tries toinduce me to relate in detail what I have myself seen and felt.But by this time I am on my guard; I make excuses; I steadilyabstain from taking my friend into my confidence. It is more andmore plain to me that I am being made the subject of anexperiment, in which Sir James and the physician are equallyinterested. Outwardly assuming to be guiltless of any suspicionof what is going on, I inwardly determine to discover the truemotive for the doctor's presence that evening, and for the partthat Sir James has taken in inviting him to be my guest.

Events favor my purpose soon after the dessert has been placed onthe table.

The waiter enters the room with a letter for me, and announcesthat the bearer waits to know if there is any answer. I open theenvelope, and find inside a few lines from my lawyers, announcingthe completion of some formal matter of business. I at once seizethe opportunity that is offered to me. Instead of sending averbal message downstairs, I make my apologies, and use theletter as a pretext for leaving the room.

Dismissing the messenger who waits below, I return to thecorridor in which my rooms are situated, and softly open the doorof my bed-chamber. A second door communicates with thesitting-room, and has a ventilator in the upper part of it. Ihave only to stand under the ventilator, and every word of theconversation between Sir James and the physician reaches my ears.

"Then you think I am right?" are the first words I hear, in SirJames's voice.

"Quite right," the doctor answers.

"I have done my best to make him change his dull way of life,"Sir James proceeds. "I have asked him to pay a visit to my housein Scotland; I have proposed traveling with him on the Continent;I have offered to take him with me on my next voyage in theyacht. He has but one answer--he simply says No to everythingthat I can suggest. You have heard from his own lips that he hasno definite plans for the future. What is to become of him? Whathad we better do?"

"It is not easy to say," I hear the physician reply. "To speakplainly, the man's nervous system is seriously deranged. Inoticed something strange in him when he first came to consult meabout his mother's health. The mischief has not been causedentirely by the affliction of her death. In my belief, his mindhas been--what shall I say?--unhinged, for some time past. He isa very reserved person. I suspect he has been oppressed byanxieties which he has kept secret from every one. At his age,the unacknowledged troubles of life are generally troubles causedby women. It is in his temperament to take the romantic view oflove; and some matter-of-fact woman of the present day may havebitterly disappointed him. Whatever may be the cause, the effectis plain--his nerves have broken down, and his brain isnecessarily affected by whatever affects his nerves. I have knownmen in his condition who have ended badly. He may drift intoinsane delusions, if his present course of life is not altered.Did you hear what he said when we talked about ghosts?"

"Sheer nonsense!" Sir James remarks.

"Sheer delusion would be the more correct form of expression,"the doctor rejoins. "And other delusions may grow out of it atany moment."

"What is to be done?" persists Sir James. "I may really say formyself, doctor, that I feel a fatherly interest in the poorfellow. His mother was one of my oldest and dearest friends, andhe has inherited many of her engaging and endearing qualities. Ihope you don't think the case is bad enough to be a case forrestraint?"

"Certainly not--as yet," answers the doctor. "So far there is nopositive brain disease; and there is accordingly no sort ofreason for placing him under restraint. It is essentially adifficult and a doubtful case. Have him privately looked after bya competent person, and thwart him in nothing, if you canpossibly help it. The merest trifle may excite his suspicions;and if that happens, we lose all control over him."

"You don't think he suspects us already, do you, doctor?"

"I hope not. I saw him once or twice look at me very strangely;and he has certainly been a long time out of the room."

Hearing this, I wait to hear no more. I return to the,sitting-room (by way of the corridor) and resume my place at thetable.

The indignation that I feel--naturally enough, I think, under thecircumstances--makes a good actor of me for once in my life. Iinvent the necessaryexcuse for my long absence, and take my part in theconversation, keeping the strictest guard on every word thatescapes me, without betraying any appearance of restraint in mymanner. Early in the evening the doctor leaves us to go to ascientific meeting. For half an hour or more Sir James remainswith me. By way (as I suppose) of farther testing the state of mymind, he renews the invitation to his house in Scotland. Ipretend to feel flattered by his anxiety to secure me as hisguest. I undertake to reconsider my first refusal, and to givehim a definite answer when we meet the next morning at breakfast.Sir James is delighted. We shake hands cordially, and wish eachother good-night. At last I am left alone.

My resolution as to my next course of proceeding is formedwithout a moment's hesitation. I determine to leave the hotelprivately the next morning before Sir James is out of hisbedroom.

To what destination I am to betake myself is naturally the nextquestion that arises, and this also I easily decide. During thelast days of my mother's life we spoke together frequently of thehappy past days when we were living together on the banks of theGreenwater lake. The longing thus inspired to look once more atthe old scenes, to live for a while again among the oldassociations, has grown on me since my mother's death. I have,happily for myself, not spoken of this feeling to Sir James or toany other person. When I am missed at the hotel, there will be nosuspicion of the direction in which I have turned my steps. Tothe old home in Suffolk I resolve to go the next morning.Wandering among the scenes of my boyhood, I can consider withmyself how I may best bear the burden of the life that liesbefore me.

After what I have heard that evening, I confide in nobody. Forall I know to the contrary, my own servant may be employedto-morrow as the spy who watches my actions. When the man makeshis appearance to take his orders for the night, I tell him towake me at six the next morning, and release him from furtherattendance.

I next employ myself in writing two letters. They will be left onthe table, to speak for themselves after my departure.

In the first letter I briefly inform Sir James that I havediscovered his true reason for inviting the doctor to dinner.While I thank him for the interest he takes in my welfare, Idecline to be made the object of any further medical inquiries asto the state of my mind. In due course of time, when my plans aresettled, he will hear from me again. Meanwhile, he need feel noanxiety about my safety. It is one among my other delusions tobelieve that I am still perfectly capable of taking care ofmyself. My second letter is addressed to the landlord of thehotel, and simply provides for the disposal of my luggage and thepayment of my bill.

I enter my bedroom next, and pack a traveling-bag with the fewthings that I can carry with me. My money is in my dressing-case.Opening it, I discover my pretty keepsake--the green flag! Can Ireturn to "Greenwater Broad," can I look again at the bailiff'scottage, without the one memorial of little Mary that I possess?Besides, have I not promised Miss Dunross that Mary's gift shallalways go with me wherever I go? and is the promise not doublysacred now that she is dead? For a while I sit idly looking atthe device on the flag--the white dove embroidered on the greenground, with the golden olive-branch in its beak. The innocentlove-story of my early life returns to my memory, and shows me inhorrible contrast the life that I am leading now. I fold up theflag and place it carefully in my traveling-bag. This done, allis done. I may rest till the morning comes.

No! I lie down on my bed, and I discover that there is no restfor me that night.

Now that I have no occupation to keep my energies employed, nowthat my first sense of triumph in the discomfiture of the friendswho have plotted against me has had time to subside, my mindreverts to the conversation that I have overheard, and considersit from a new point of view. For the first time, the terriblequestion confronts me: The doctor's opinion on my case has beengiven very positively. How do I know that the doctor is notright?

This famous physician has risen to the head of his professionentirely by his own abilities. He is one of the medical men whosucceed by means of an ingratiating manner and the dexteroushandling of good opportunities. Even his enemies admit that hestands unrivaled in the art of separating the true conditionsfrom the false in the discovery of disease, and in tracingeffects accurately to their distant and hidden cause. Is such aman as this likely to be mistaken about me? Is it not far moreprobable that I am mistaken in my judgment of myself?

When I look back over the past years, am I quite sure that thestrange events which I recall may not, in certain cases, be thevisionary product of my own disordered brain--realities to me,and to no one else? What are the dreams of Mrs. Van Brandt? Whatare the ghostly apparitions of her which I believe myself to haveseen? Delusions which have been the stealthy growth of years?delusions which are leading me, by slow degrees, nearer andnearer to madness in the end? Is it insane suspicion which hasmade me so angry with the good friends who have been trying tosave my reason? Is it insane terror which sets me on escapingfrom the hotel like a criminal escaping from prison?

These are the questions which torment me when I am alone in thedead of night. My bed becomes a place of unendurable torture. Irise and dress myself, and wait for the daylight, looking throughmy open window into the street.

The summer night is short. The gray light of dawn comes to melike a deliverance; the glow of the glorious sunrise cheers mysoul once more. Why should I wait in the room that is stillhaunted by my horrible doubts of the night? I take up mytraveling-bag; I leave my letters on the sitting-room table; andI descend the stairs to the house door. The night-porter at thehotel is slumbering in his chair. He wakes as I pass him; and(God help me!) he too looks as if he thought I was mad.

"Going to leave us already, sir?" he says, looking at the bag inmy hand.

Mad or sane, I am ready with my reply. I tell him I am going outfor a day in the country, and to make it a long day, I must startearly.

The man still stares at me. He asks if he shall find some one tocarry my bag. I decline to let anybody be disturbed. He inquiresif I have any messages to leave for my friend. I inform him thatI have left written messages upstairs for Sir James and thelandlord. Upon this he draws the bolts and opens the door. To thelast he looks at me as if he thought I was mad.

Was he right or wrong? Who can answer for himself? How can Itell?