DOCTOR RAYMOND was a kind man. He was fifty-seven years of age, rather stout, and altogether comfortable in appearance. His eyes were soft and grey, his bushy whiskers of the same colour. His chin and upper lip being clean-shaven, gave full play to the expression of sympathetic benevolence which his many friends knew and loved so well. It is doubtful whether a large head is any indication of brain power, but the two were certainly combined in the person of Charles Raymond; for his broad-brimmed white beaver would have slipped down to the nose of most men, while as to his ability — well, who had not heard of Doctor Raymond of Harley Street, the eminent writer and lecturer on nervous disorders? Not in London only, but in the hospitals of Paris, Vienna and Berlin, the name of Charles Raymond, M.D., F.R.S., was known and respected by every member of the medical profession.

      He had naturally a keen insight into character, and a power of observation which enabled him with an uncommon degree of accuracy to gauge the state of mind of those with whom he was brought into contact. His success, indeed, was largely due to these gifts, while they had of course been greatly strengthened and developed by the study of that branch of medicine in which he had made himself a specialist.

      One morning, when July was at its hottest, the doctor found on his breakfast-table a letter calling him suddenly into the country. He took a hurried breakfast, called a hansom, kissed his two daughters and drove off. He had, however, run it rather close, and it was but a minute to the starting time of the train when he arrived at Euston. He ran up the platform with his black bag in his hand, his loose frock-coat streaming behind him. The guards and porters were standing by the doors of the carriages grinned as the portly gentleman with the great white beaver panted past them.

      "Now then, sir, look sharp! time's up," shouted the guard as he banged the compartment doors. Doctor Raymond ran on, hoping to find an empty carriage, till he reached the end of the train, and then, as it was beginning to move, he scrambled into the compartment next the engine without having time to look whether it were full or empty. Then, taking off his hat which he placed beside his bag on the seat, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his red silk handkerchief, and settled himself comfortably into the corner to read the Times.

      But his eyes soon wandered from the print, fascinated at first by the rise and fall of the telegraph wires, then by the fields, farmsteads and rivers which flitted past, and then — by his travelling companion. Yes, fascinated! For Doctor Raymond was by no means proof against a pretty face. And it was an undeniably pretty face he saw opposite him. The girl who owned it looked about twenty-one. She had an exceedingly light, clear complexion, with rather small but piquant features, except her eyes which were large, deep, dreamy, of a rich brown colour guarded by long, dark lashes and finely pencilled eyebrows. Her hair was of the same nut-brown as her eyelashes, but as the sunbeam struck upon her head through the carriage window, Doctor Raymond could see a tint of golden red glancing from beneath the smart little straw hat decked with cornflowers.

      The elderly doctor and the beautiful girl were alone together in the compartment, and the doctor was fascinated. But there was no harm in it. Dear good Doctor Raymond, leaving his wife and daughters in Harley Street and bound on a tiresome and profitless errand of mercy, was in no danger whatever; but he was undoubtedly fascinated. Not altogether — not even principally — by the girl's beauty, though he would have been sorry to be insensible to that. No, but there was something in her face as she gazed out of the carriage-window, unconscious apparently of the doctor's presence, which made him feel that she would interest him from his special point of view. It was not merely that she was evidently a clever girl; that her face indicated power of thought and imagination; but that he perceived in her signs of a finely strung nervous organisation, a far-away mystical look, which to his professional eye was, as Carlyle would say, "significant of much."

      "I should like to ask her," he thought, "whether she has ever been hypnotised, and warn her against it. I hope she never will allow it. Heaven knows what might come of it."

      At that moment the train which was not an express, stopped at a country-side station. Suddenly the girl gave a violent start and turned deadly pale. Doctor Raymond noticed it of course, but he supposed it might be due to her being suddenly wakened from her long reverie, and being disconcerted at finding that he had been watching her. Or, perhaps, he thought, the sun had been too strong on the back of her head. Lest this should be so, and in order to remove any embarrassment she might feel, he asked her in his most kindly manner if she would like the blind pulled down behind her, or the window a little further open.

      Her paleness did not last, and the doctor could see that physically she was strong and well. But he noticed that her face, which, before their arrival at the station had seemed peculiarly happy and contented, now appeared uneasy, troubled, scared. What could possibly be the cause of this? It occurred to him for a moment that perhaps she was troubled by becoming conscious that she was in the railway carriage alone with a gentleman; but he immediately scouted the idea that he with his grey hair and spectacles could cause such uneasiness to anyone. Besides, she must know that the train stopped every few minutes, and she could get out if she chose at the next station, which they were now already approaching.

      As the train came to a standstill at the platform, the young lady looked out, and again she started violently, this time in more evident distress, clutching the arms of the compartment and staring towards the "Way Out" of the little station. But she made no attempt to leave the carriage, and it was evident to Dr. Raymond that whatever it might be that troubled her, it had no relation to himself. He was more than ever interested, but absolutely at a loss to imagine the cause. The girl's scared look and uneasy manner between the stations continued, and became more marked, and it was clear that whatever the mysterious cause of her alarm might be, she now expected its recurrence at the next station, although at first it had come as a surprise. Two more stations were reached, and at each the same thing took place.

      Doctor Raymond at last decided that it was his duty as a gentleman, and especially as a physician, to try if he could be of use to this poor girl. He accordingly leaned over towards her and said kindly:

      "My dear young lady, you must forgive the liberty I take in speaking to you, but I am old enough to be your father, and I am a doctor as well. I have observed that something is troubling you; something is on your mind. Will you tell me what it is? Perhaps I could give you some help."

      The girl looked round hastily and said in a hurried frightened manner:

      "Oh, thank you, sir, you are very kind. No, it's all right, there's nothing the matter with me, thank you."

      He laid his large fat hand in a fatherly way on her dainty gloved fingers, and looked straight into her face as he answered:

      "You have, of course, a perfect right to refuse to answer me; but you can't deceive me as to the fact. It is not true that nothing is the matter. You have some trouble on your mind — some serious trouble. What is it?"

      He spoke with slow deliberation, and the last words were more those of command than persuasion.

      The poor girl burst into tears, and the doctor feared she was going to have an hysterical attack. For now the train was again slowing up to the platform, and she caught him by the arm and pointing out of the window cried:

      "Look, look! There he is! There he is!" But she was sobbing so much and was so excited that no explanation could be got out of her before the train again started. The doctor had seen nothing to account for her excitement.

      Presently, however, he succeeded in calming her, and his kind fatherly manner soon conquered her shyness and completely won her confidence.

      "Oh, sir, how kind you are! thank you so much," she said. "Yes, I should like to tell you about it now, if I may. I am engaged to be married, and I am now on my way down to Slingsby to stay with Malcolm's people. It is Malcolm Dundas I am going to be married to; perhaps you know his father, Sir Reginald Dundas of Slingsby Court?"

      The doctor shook his head, and she continued:

      "Well, as I say, I am going down there now. I heard from Malcolm this morning. He was perfectly well when he wrote yesterday, and he said he would meet me at Slingsby Station at 1.30 to-day, when this train arrives there. At the first station we stopped at I saw him on the platform, standing near the door of the booking- office, and beckoning to me to come to him. Just for a moment I thought it was really he, and I would have got out of the train only it started again so quickly. And yet he looked strange; somehow, not quite as he ordinarily looks, and his face was so sad and anxious; almost unearthly. He certainly did not get into the train, and yet I saw him again at the next station, and again at every place where we have stopped. And he always beckons to me with his hand to follow him and then goes out of the station. At the last place he looked as if he were terror-struck or in despair, I can't quite say which. Oh, sir, you are a doctor and can tell me whether there are such things as astral bodies, as some people say. I am sure it is Malcolm Dundas's spirit I saw. He must be dead. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" And the tears rushed into her eyes again at the thought that some disaster had occurred to the man she loved, or some terrible mystery hung around him.

      Doctor Raymond, whose keen sense of humour never forsook him even in the most searching crises of life, repressed with difficulty a smile at the girl's idea that his knowledge of anatomy would inform him as to astral bodies. But the situation demanded seriousness. The young lady's words confirmed the notion he had already formed as to her nervous constitution, and he was persuaded that the excitement of her approaching marriage, and her eager expectation of meeting her lover had worked upon her nerves and produced an hallucination. He thought it not unlikely, moreover, from what she had said, that she had been indulging in a class of reading which had strengthened a natural tendency in that direction.

      The train was again stopping, and he resolved at once what to do. "I think, my dear young lady, that your anxiety to see Mr. Dundas has made you imagine that you saw him. If anything had happened to him, you would be sure to have had a telegram. Now, don't allow yourself to be alarmed, and I'll tell you what we will do. At the next station, look out again, and if you think you see him, point him out to me; and we'll get out of the train together and go straight to him, and you'll see there is nothing really there, and so satisfy yourself that it is simply your imagination.

      "There he is! there he is!" cried the girl as the train at that moment shot alongside the platform at Otterby. "Don't you see him at the station door in light clothes and straw hat with a blue ribbon? Look how he beckons me to follow him."

      In an instant the doctor was out of the carriage and walking rapidly down the platform with his beautiful companion clutching his arm.

      "I don't see any gentleman there," he said.

      "Oh! yes, yes," cried the girl, "be quick; there he is, just going out of the station; quick! quick!" They reached the door and followed the phantom out past the booking office to the steps into the road. "There he's gone!" said the girl. "But we were quite close to him; surely you must have seen him?"

      "No, I saw nothing," the doctor answered, "so you see it was all your imagination. How could anything real vanish like that in broad daylight? Come along back to the train. This is my destination, but I'll go on with you to Slingsby. It's the next station, and you'll find Mr. Dundas there all right, you'll see."

      What was their consternation to find that the train had already started and was moving so rapidly that it would have been madness to attempt to enter it. And now the girl was in a terrible state of mind. Added to her fears was the anxiety, not altogether consistent with them, as to what her lover would think, if he were at the next station in the flesh, and the train arrived without her. "Never mind," said the doctor reassuringly, "it is unfortunate no doubt, but you can send him a telegram, and get a reply in a few minutes. The next train goes in about an hour; I'll look after you till then. We can't telegraph from this station, so come along to the post office in the village; it's only ten minutes' walk."

*       *       *       *      *

      Outside Slingsby station a smart dog-cart was standing with a liveried groom at the cob's head. Malcolm Dundas, who had thought of nothing for days but the coming of his betrothed to Slingsby, was ten minutes too soon for the train, and paced the platform impatiently with a cigar in his mouth. At last the station clock pointed to 1.30, and he looked anxiously down the line to catch the first sight of the coming train. Surely the train which carried his sweetheart could not be late? Five-and-twenty, twenty, a quarter to two, and still no train.

      "Porter," shouted Dundas, angrily, as if that innocent official were maliciously delaying the train; "porter, what the deuce is keeping the train?"

      "Don't know, sir, I'm sure. She was up to time at the Junction, sir; should be here by now."

      At that instant a man was seen running along the line, and a few moments later he reached the platform. He was so breathless he could hardly pant out his message.

      "Block the line — train smashed up the line there; nobody knows how many killed; fearful smash."

      Poor Dundas! He was stunned. He could not speak. He could not take it in. Oh, what might not those words mean for him? He dared not hope. She was probably killed; perhaps horribly mutilated — a cripple for life; perhaps at that very moment lying in agony, crushed beneath the wrecked railway carriages a mile or so away. He had not the courage to run up the line to the scene of the accident. He was stupefied.

      "Telegram for you, sir."

      Dundas was roused by the porter's words, and tearing open the red envelope with trembling fingers, he read: "Malcolm Dundas, Slingsby Station. Very sorry missed train at Otterby. Proceed by next. Wire whether you can wait. Maud, Otterby Station."

      It soon transpired that no one was killed in the accident, though several were more or less seriously injured. One compartment, that next the engine, was crushed to pulp; but, as the newspapers said, it was "fortunately unoccupied." Several years have passed since the Slingsby accident. You understand, now, why among the numerous friends of Malcolm Dundas and his charming wife, none is more intimate than Doctor Raymond.

RONALD J. MCNEILL.