CHAPTER. X. How are the roses on that cheek decay'd BEATTIE. YEARS, long, eventful years, have rolled away since I was a student at the University of the northern metropolis. Life since then has presented its varied phases of good or ill, and with the world's concerns and its cares I have been no stranger. Yet such have not made me forget the days to which I now revert. Recollection re-summons to its vision, with strange truthfulness, things long passed away, and brings again into a sort of ideal reality circumstances and their associations, which lie far over the vista of time. Wonderful attribute art thou, Memory-a ray of that divinity woven in our nature, mysterious and incomprehensible-the immaterial something added to material being, subject to no laws of matter, of space, or duration! In the southern outskirts of the old town there was a cul-de-sac kind of square, which, doubtless, in the days of yore, was more fashionable than now. This was Park-Place. There stood the once proud mansion of a metropolitan magnate, darkened and antiquated by the breath of time. In the downward course of its destiny, it had undergone various reverses and metamorphoses. The old fabric is now faithfully imaged to my sight. I can see its little wall-girt paddock, which it were utter mockery to designate by the name of park, and surely the place could not have taken its prenomen from that confined little plot. I can still behold the unpretending entrance-gates, the half-dozen dirty, smoke-begrimed sheep cropping the bare herbage in their intramural range, the piles of tall and sombre houses by which it was hemmed in, the garden run to waste, I am, Davie," said I, throwing on my cloak and hurrying off to the place directed. Pacing along the flags, I could not avoid the idea that there was some mistake in the matter. I had not on my list any patient in that street. "However," thought I, "it is my duty to go." It was a clear, frosty night, but my cogitations made me forget the uncomfortableness of leaving the warm fire side. On reaching my destination, the door of No.- was slightly on the jar, and ere I had ascended the steps a respectably dressed female, with a candle in her hand, politely, bade me walk in, and ushered me into a small but clean and neatly furnished sitting room. "Mr. Milford, I suppose ?" said she, inquiringly. "My name is Milford; yes." "Mrs. M'Andrews, the matron of your hospital," returned she, "is my sister, and she recommended you to attend a stranger lady, who is now lodging in my house, and who will, I fancy, soon require your pre sence." This personage was a squat, square-built, red-faced little woman, apparently on the wrong side of forty. Her small deep-set eyes, low brow, slightly compressed mouth, and sinister look, rendered her not the most prepossessing of her sex. After a little preliminary conversation, she bade me follow her into the adjoining apartment, wherein I was to be introduced to my patient. This apartment I found an exceedingly comfortable dormitory. The fire burnt brightly in the frost air of the evening, and imparted a more than wonted cheerfulness,—whilst the red moreen curtains, the few pictures in their gilded frames, the pretty lamp that stood on the table emitting its pale beams, with various other et cæteras, which, if they did not impress the mind with notions of affluence, they did of content and comfort, and led the beholder to deem it a nice, quiet, out-of-the-way-of-the-world little room. In an easy-chair In the corner sat an elderly lady, who respectfully aroae and acknowledged my entrance. The mistress of the house followed close at my heels, and said, by way of introduction:-"It is the doctor from Park-Place, Ma'am," addressing herself to the occupant of the easy-chair. "Do take this seat-do, sir, I beseech you," said the elderly lady, as she arose, and pointed to the luxurious chair in which she had been sitting. "It is a cold night, and this corner will be agreeable," continued she, in a kind but half-subdued tone of voice. "You are sent for, sir," resumed she, after a short pause, "to attend a lady who now sleeps there"-pointing to the bed on the opposite side of the room-" and may God in his goodness grant her to survive her coming illness," continued she, with a deep and anxious sigh. She then, with hushed and measured step advanced to the bed, and partially drew aside the curtains, but the patient was in a tranquil slumber. I returned to my seat, and begged she might not be disturbed. She reiterated her devout wishes for the safe delivery of the lady; and, as she again thus earnestly expressed herself, I did not fail to observe her voice grew tremulous. During the interval of our conversation I |