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mother just dead?” The young man raised his head, saw the radiant girl before him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, during which he shuddered as if at some painful memory, murmuring, “No; it cannot be possible!—cannot be—in this part of the world, too! no!” he replied to her, saying, “Girl, I am lonely, and that is why I weep. I am but a boy, yet the weight of years of grief rest on and bear me down. To-day is the anniversary of my mother’s death, and, when it comes, I always pass it in tears and prayer. Since she went home to heaven, I have had no true friend, and my lot and life are miserable indeed. Men call themselves my friends, and prove it by robbing me. Not long ago, there came a man to me—he was very rich—and said, ‘People tell me that you are very skillful with the sick. Come; I have a sister whom the physicians say must die. I love her. You are poor; I am rich. Save her; gold shall be yours.’ I went. She was beyond the reach of medicine, and it was possible to prolong her life only in one of two ways—either by the transfusion of blood from my veins to her own, or by the transfusion of life itself. I was young and strong, and we resolved to adopt the latter alternative, as being the only possibly effective one; and for months, during three years, I sat beside that poor sick girl, and freely let her wasted frame draw its very life by magnetically sapping my own. Finally, I began to sink with