Phosphor: An Ischian Mystery. John Filmore Sherry

His had been an unlucky life. Whilst he was studying his parents died, and finding himself without the necessary funds to last him through his examination, was obliged to leave the University and take to teaching as a means of gaining a livelihood.

      He, however, always cherished the idea of one day being a qualified medical practitioner.

      From his constant reference to this subject he instilled into my mind a desire to become a member of that profession. So after passing the preliminary examination with ease, and with much ​persuasion having gained the consent of my mother, when I was seventeen I went to Edinburgh. Here, with the exception of occasional visits to Kent, I stayed for four years, and at the end of that time found myself at liberty to write M.B. after my name.

      The next two years were spent in visiting the chief continental laboratories. I embodied my researches in toxicology in my graduation thesis for M.D., and received special commendation and a gold medal for it.

      I then went to live with my mother in Kent. I started practice and—fell in love.

      The object of my affections was one of my first patients. And in our first meeting was a touch of romance. Walking one day in a wood near our home, I heard a woman's voice crying for help, and rushing to the spot I found a beautiful girl sitting on a bank of green moss, weeping and calling for help by turns. I enquired if I could be of any assistance. She told me she was one of a picnic party, and wandering about had lost her friends; trying to reach some nuts she had trod on a stick, and was afraid she had sprained her ankle, as she could not move it without great pain. All this was told in the prettiest way imaginable between her sobs.

      I informed her I was a doctor, and proffered my services to bandage the ankle.

      ​She looked at me for a moment, doubtless thinking my youthful appearance more befitting a schoolboy than a full blown medico.

      I, seeing her hesitation, hastened to assure her—"I am Dr. Morton and live in Sittingborne."

      Looking at me through tears that made her face look more bewitching she said, "Oh! are you Dr. Morton;—I thought he was much older than you seem to be?"

      Then quickly with an assumption of dignity that made her look simply irresistible—"I beg your pardon! you must think me very rude, I, I—"

      But the pain becoming too great, she dropped her dignified attitude and again commenced to cry. Without waiting any longer I took out my pocket-knife and kneeling down ripped up her little French kid boot and stocking.

      The ankle was already very much swollen, so bidding her keep quiet for a few moments, I ran to a brook that was luckily near and dipping my handkerchief in hurried back.

      I placed it round her foot (and a dear little foot it was) as carefully as I could, but though I hardly touched it she could not help now and then giving a cry of pain. Having finished I asked her in which direction she thought her friends were, but she did not know.

      ​So I shouted out several times without receiving any answer.

      What was to be done? Whatever it was required doing speedily, as the ankle needed properly bandaging.

      Here was I with a sweetly pretty girl alone in the wood. The situation was rather embarrassing; but at that moment I would not have exchanged it for any other in the world.

      "The only way I can think of," I said, "is for you to wait here, while I run to the nearest parish and try to get a conveyance of some sort or other to take you home. Where do you live?"

      She raised her eyes piteously to my face.

      "I am staying at Mrs. Mavis's in Sittinghorne. Oh! please don't go away, they will not know what has become of me. What am I to do?"

      "Well, as you will not let me leave you. I shall have to take you with me; you do not look very heavy."

      "Do you think you could carry me. It is quite a mile to our place."

      I waited no longer, but bending down lifted her carefully in my arms, so as to hurt her as little as possible, and strode through the woods.

      ​

      CHAPTER II.

      Can I describe her? Is it possible for me to describe such bewitching loveliness?

      My darling, could my pen do you justice? No! a thousand times, no!

      Whatever I should say could give but a feeble idea of you. It was not only your face, or your form, there was an indescribable something about you essentially your own.

      You were yourself, that was enough for me. None other in my eyes could be like you.

      When you cried you looked prettier than another woman when she smiles. When you smiled I seemed to be nearer God—my brain whirled with excess of joy.

      How I blessed that picnic party! The wood for attracting her from her friends, the nuts for causing her to desire them, and most of all, the stick for spraining her ankle! I was thoroughly selfish.

      I always have been. I thought nothing of her pain, but merely saw in it a means for me to win her for my wife.

      Yes! Already, in three quarters of an hour I was madly in love, as an hour before, I should not have dreamed it possible for me to be.

      I looked at her lying in my arms.

      ​What a lovely picture she made! Her closed eyes caused her dark lashes to sweep her cheeks.

      Her lips apart disclosed to my enraptured gaze two rows of small pearly teeth; her dead golden coloured hair had become unfastened, and partly hid one of her pink cheeks; beneath her muslin and lace dress I could see the gentle motion of her bosom.

      Her contracted forehead, and the corners of her mouth occasionally twitching, showed me she was still in pain; the whole made a picture, the like of which very few men have the good luck to see. How I wished I had five miles to carry her instead of one!

      She opened her eyes. "I have not told you my name yet." I smiled to myself. What difference could her name make to me?

      My God! what was she saying?

      "It is Edith Garren."

      The words seemed to burn into my brain.

      I felt giddy and stumbled.

      She uttered a cry of pain, and then continuing, said, "I am the only daughter of Major Garren."

      I pulled myself together with an effort, and controlled my emotion.

      "Edith Garren! Major Garren!"

      "I am staying with Mrs. Mavis now, as my father has gone to America."

      ​O Heavens; to think it should come to this. I, David Morton, to be in love with, to have in my arms, to have sworn in my soul to win the daughter of the man who had ruined my father.

      How I accomplished the rest of the mile I do not know. But at last I found myself at the gate of Mrs. Mavis's house.

      The party had returned, and seeing us coming hastened to the gate. Missing her in the wood they had concluded she had gone back to the house.

      But when they returned they were much alarmed by not finding her and were just on the point of setting out again for the woods.

      However, our return of course put an end to their anxiety, as far as that was concerned.

      I carried her in, properly bandaged her foot, and received the thanks of her hostess, and an invitation to stay to dinner, which I declined. I left, promising to call in the morning and see how the foot was progressing.

      On returning home I found I had just time to dress for dinner; so I put off telling my mother until afterwards.

      During the meal I tried to argue with and convince myself that I did not care for Edith.

      But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that I should never again care for a woman. ​Then, reasoning that it was no use informing my mother about