Who Goes There?. B. K. Benson

       --BROWNING.

      The next morning Lydia was missing from the breakfast table. The Doctor said that she had gone to her room--which was at a friend's house in Georgetown--to rest. She had brought from Willis a request that I should come to see him.

      "You are getting back to your normal condition," said the Doctor, "and if you do not object I shall drive you down."

      On the way, the Doctor told me that alarm as to the safety of the capital had subsided. The army was reorganizing on the Virginia hills and was intrenching rapidly. Reënforcements were being hurried to Washington, and a new call for volunteers would at once be made. General McClellan would arrive in a few days; much was expected of his ability to create and discipline an army.

      "You need be in no hurry to report to your company," said Dr. Khayme; "it is true that you are almost fit for duty, but you have practically a leave of absence for a week or more, and I am sure that rest will do you good. By the way, President Lincoln will visit the troops at Arlington to-day; if you like, I shall be glad to take you over."

      I declined, saying that I must see Willis, and expressing my desire to return to my post of duty as soon as possible.

      We found Willis cheerful. The Doctor asked him a few questions and then passed into the office.

      Willis pressed my hand. "Old man," said he, "but for you I should be a prisoner. Count on Jake Willis whenever you need a friend, or when it is in his power to do you a service."

      "Sergeant," said I, "I shall go back to duty in a day or two. What shall I say to the boys for you?"

      "Tell 'em old Jake is a-comin' too. My leg feels better already. The surgeon promises to put me on my feet in a month, or six weeks at the outside. Have you learned how our company came out?"

      "The papers say there were four killed," I said; "but I have not seen their names, and I hope they are only missing. There were a good many wounded. The regiment's headquarters are over the river, and I have not seen a man of the company except you. I am very anxious."

      "So am I," said the sergeant; "your friend Dr. Khayme told me it will be some days before we learn the whole truth. He is a queer man, Jones; I believe he knows what I think. Was that his daughter who came in here last night?"

      "Yes," I answered; "she left me your message this morning."

      "Say, Jones, you remember that poplar log?"

      "I don't think I can ever forget it," I replied. The next moment I thought of my bygone mental peculiarity, and wondered if I should ever again be subjected to loss of memory. I decided to speak to Dr. Khayme once more about this matter. Although he had advised me in Charleston never to speak of it or think of it, he had only last night, referred to it himself.

      "I must go now, Sergeant," said I; "can I do anything for you?"

      "No, I think not."

      "You are able to write your own letters?"

      "Oh, yes; the nurse gives me a bed-table."

      "Well, good-by."

      "Say, Jones, you remember them straw stacks? Good-by, Jones. I'll be with the boys again before long."

      In the afternoon I returned to the little camp and found the Doctor and Lydia. The Doctor was busy--writing. I reminded Lydia of her promise to tell me something about her life in the East.

      "Where shall I begin?" she asked,

      "Begin at the beginning," I said; "begin at the time I left Charleston."

      "I don't know," she said, "that Father had at that time any thought of going. One morning he surprised me by telling me to get ready for a long journey."

      "When was that?" I asked.

      "I am not certain, but I know it was one day in the vacation, and a good while after you left."

      "It must have been in September, then."

      "Yes, I am almost sure it was in September."

      "I suppose you were very glad to go."

      "Yes, I was; but Father's intention was made known to me so suddenly that I had no time to say good-by to anybody, and that grieved me."

      "You wanted to say good-by to somebody?"

      "The Sisters, you know--and my schoolmates."

      "Yes--of course; did your old servant go too?"

      "Yes; she died while we were in India."

      "I remember her very well. So you went to India?"

      "Not directly; we sailed first to Liverpool; then we went on to Paris--strange, we went right through London, and were there not more than an hour or two."

      "How long did you stay in Paris?"

      "Father had some business there--I don't know what--that kept us for two or three weeks. Then we went to Havre, and took a ship for Bombay."

      "And so you were in India most of the time while you were abroad?"

      "Yes; we lived in India nearly three years."

      "In Bombay?"

      "I was in Bombay, but Father was absent a good deal of the time."

      "Did you go to school?"

      "Yes," she said, smiling.

      Dinner was ready. After dinner the Doctor and I sat under the trees. I told him of my wish to return to my company.

      "Perhaps it is just as well," said he.

      "I think I am fit for duty," said I.

      "Yes, you are strong enough," said he.

      "Then why are you reluctant?"

      "Because I am not quite sure that your health is safe; you ran a narrower risk than your condition now would show."

      "And you think there is danger in my reporting for duty?"

      "Ordinary bodily exertion will not injure you; exposure might; the weather is very warm."

      "There will be nothing for me to do--at least, nothing very hard on me."

      "Danger seems at present averted," said Dr. Khayme. "Your depression has gone; if you are not worse to-morrow, I shall not oppose your going."

      I plunged into the subject most interesting to me: "Doctor, do you remember telling me, some ten years ago, that you did not think it advisable for me to tell you of my experiences?"

      "Yes," he replied.

      "And that it was best, perhaps, that I should not think of them?"

      "Yes," he replied,

      "Yet you referred last night to what you called my peculiar powers."

      "Yes, and said that it is possible to make great use of them."

      "Doctor, do you know that after I left you in Charleston I had a recurrence of my trouble?"

      "I had at least suspected it."

      "Why do you call my infirmity a peculiar power?" I asked.

      "Why do you call your peculiar power an infirmity?" he retorted. Then, with the utmost seriousness, he went on to say: "Everything is relative; your memory, taking it generally, is better than