Phosphor: An Ischian Mystery. John Filmore Sherry

steps seemed drawn towards the scene of yesterday's adventure, and lighting a cigar, I strolled in that direction.

      Entering the wood, I continued walking, not knowing exactly in what direction I was going. As the first rays of the sun appeared in the east I found myself near the brook where I had gone to wet my handkerchief the evening before, and knowing that I could not be far from the spot where I had discovered Edith (I already surprised myself calling her by her christian name), I proceeded to look for it.

      Following the stream, I came to the place where I had wet the handkerchief, and tracing my footsteps had no difficulty in finding the exact spot.

      The first thing that attracted my attention was the little boot I had cut off her foot; near it was a piece of paper. I picked it up, opened it and found it was a letter from Major Garren to Edith, commencing—"My dear Child."

      From the number of terms of endearment used ​I could plainly see that he was passionately fond of his daughter.

      It ended by telling her he expected to be in England again in some months. It also contained a postscript, running—"Have you come across a Dr. Morton, I hear there is one in Kent?"

      I sat down on the bank and was soon lost in thought; suddenly an idea struck me: "What greater revenge could I have than to rob this man of his only child ?"

      I returned home.

      After breakfast I proceeded to visit my patient. On my arrival I was warmly greeted by Mrs, Mavis and shown into the drawing-room, where Edith was lying on the sofa.

      She seemed pleased to see me, and blushed very much whilst thanking me for my exertions on her behalf, little knowing how much pleasure my services had given me.

      Her ankle was very much swollen, and to my satisfaction I saw in it means of visiting her for some time.

      During our conversion Edith remarked:—

      "I think papa must have known your father, Dr. Morton, for in his last letter he asks me if I had met you." "It is very probable," I replied. "I have an indistinct recollection of his occasionally visiting us when we were at Peckham."

      ​They asked me to stay to lunch. I did so, and made myself as agreeable as possible.

      Day after day I continued my visits until I could find no reasonable pretext for coming so constantly—Edith's ankle having been well some time.

      At the end of about two months I proposed to her, and she accepted me.

      My mother, who knew nothing about Edith, had to be told.

      She was astonished, and at first would not believe that I had engaged myself to the daughter of my father's murderer, as she persisted in calling him.

      But after meeting Edith, and I having explained to her that it would be a great punishment to Garren for his only daughter to marry the son of the man he had killed by his treachery, she at last looked at it from the same point of view as myself.

      Edith wrote to her father, informing him of our engagement.

      But, resolving that nothing should thwart me in my object, I bribed one of the servants to get me the letter, for I knew if he heard we were engaged he would be over by the next boat, and I should lose her.

      This I determined should not happen if it was in my power to stop it.

      ​The marriage was hurried on, and four months after our engagement we were married quietly. We went to London for our honeymoon and stayed there three weeks.

      Those three weeks remain the one bright oasis in a life of misery.

      We returned to Kent and lived in the same house as my mother.

      Edith wrote to America, telling her father of our marriage, and trusting soon to see him. I did not think he would come, and I was right.

      We waited impatiently for a reply, but none came.

      Some time after we received a communication from Major Garren's solicitor, informing us of his death, and that in consequence of his daughter marrying me he had left all his money to charities.

      For eight months I was happy, then misfortune came.

      My wife died in giving birth to a son.

      Three days later the baby died.

      I was distracted.

      I had brain fever, and was ill six months.

      At the end of that time I was again able to move about, the shadow of my former self, thin and weakened by my illness.

      My mother took me to the seaside, where we ​stayed six months. Then I returned to my practice.

      But my misfortunes had not yet ceased—sixteen months after my return, my mother (who had always been delicate,) died of consumption.

      So that in a little more than two years I lost all I cared for in the world.

      By my mother's death, I came into five hundred a year, irrespective of my practice.

      I could not bear to live amongst the scenes of my great happiness and greater losses, so I determined to travel, and try if fresh places and new faces could not assuage a little of my misery.