their leave. I looked back at the distant house. I thought of her
in the dark room, waiting patiently for death. Burning tears
blinded me. The guide took my bridle in his hand: "You're not
well, sir," he said; "I will lead the pony."

When I looked again at the landscape round me, we had descended
in the interval from the higher ground to the lower. The house
and the lake had disappeared, to be seen no more.

CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE SHADOW OF ST. PAUL'S.

In ten days I was at home again--and my mother's arms were round
me.

I had left her for my sea-voyage very unwillingly--seeing that
she was in delicate health. On my return, I was grieved to
observe a change for the worse, for which her letters had not
prepared me. Consulting our medical friend, Mr. MacGlue, I found
that he, too, had noticed my mother's failing health, but that he
attributed it to an easily removable cause--to the climate of
Scotland. My mother's childhood and early life had been passed on
the southern shores of England. The change to the raw, keen air
of the North had been a trying change to a person at her age. In
Mr. MacGlue's opinion, the wise course to take would be to return
to the South before the autumn was further advanced, and to make
our arrangements for passing the coming winter at Penzance or
Torquay.

Resolved as I was to keep the mysterious appointment which
summoned me to London at the month's end, Mr. MacGlue's
suggestion met with no opposition on my part. It had, to my mind,
the great merit of obviating the necessity of a second separation
from my mother--assuming that she approved of the doctor's
advice. I put the question to her the same day. To my infinite
relief, she was not only ready, but eager to take the journey to
the South. The season had been unusually wet, even for Scotland;
and my mother reluctantly confessed that she "did feel a certain
longing" for the mild air and genial sunshine of the Devonshire
coast.

We arranged to travel in our own comfortable carriage by
post--resting, of course, at inns on the road at night. In the
days before railways it was no easy matter for an invalid to
travel from Perthshire to London--even with a light carriage and
four horses. Calculating our rate of progress from the date of
our departure, I found that we had just time, and no more, to
reach London on the last day of the month.

I shall say nothing of the secret anxieties which weighed on my
mind, under these circumstances. Happily for me, on every
account, my mother's strength held out. The easy and (as we then
thought) the rapid rate of traveling had its invigorating effect
on her nerves. She slept better when we rested for the night than
she had slept at home. After twice being delayed on the road, we
arrived in London at three o'clock on the afternoon of the last
day of the month. Had I reached my destination in time?

As I interpreted the writing of the apparition, I had still some
hours at my disposal. The phrase, "at the month's end," meant, as
I understood it, at the last hour of the last day in the month.
If I took up my position "under the shadow of Saint Paul's," say,
at ten that night, I should arrive at the place of meeting with
two hours to spare, before the last stroke of the clock marked
the beginning of the new month.

At half-past nine, I left my mother to rest after her long
journey, and privately quit the house. Before ten, I was at my
post. The night was fine and clear; and the huge shadow of the
cathedral marked distinctly the limits within which I had been
bid to wait, on the watch for events.

The great clock of Saint Paul's struck ten--and nothing happened.

The next hour passed very slowly. I walked up and down; at one
time absorbed in my own thoughts; at another, engaged in watching
the gradual diminution in the number of foot passengers who
passed me as the night advanced. The City (as it is called) is
the most populous part of London in the daytime; but at night,
when it ceases to be the center of commerce, its busy population
melts away, and the empty streets assume the appearance of a
remote and deserted quarter of the metropolis. As the half hour
after ten struck--then the quarter to eleven--then the hour--the
pavement steadily became more and more deserted. I could count
the foot passengers now by twos and threes; and I could see the
places of public refreshment within my view beginning already to
close for the night.

I looked at the clock; it pointed to ten minutes past eleven. At
that hour, could I hope to meet Mrs. Van Brandt alone in the
public street?

The more I thought of it, the less likely such an event seemed to
be. The more reasonable probability was that I might meet her
once more, accompanied by some friend--perhaps under the escort
of Van Brandt himself. I wondered whether I should preserve my
self-control, in the presence of that man, for the second time.

While my thoughts were still pursuing this direction, my


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