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NE dull, gray afternoon in November I was sitting in my office in Raymond Square, deeply absorbed in an article in my Medical Journal, the description of an experiment conducted by a famous French surgeon for the purpose of determining whether sight could be restored to a blind person by engrafting the live nerve of a dog's eye upon the shriveled and atrophied nerve of the patient's eye. So engrossed was I in the fascinating details of the experiment that I did not hear the door of my office open, nor was I aware of the presence of a second person until a peculiarly deep-toned, rich, and musical voice broke upon my ear.

"Have I the honor of addressing Doctor Marston?"

I looked up, and saw before me a tall and graceful young man, smooth-shaven, and dressed in the characteristic clerical garb of the Church of England. His face was singularly handsome, of the clear-cut Grecian type, and was lighted by a pair of large, thoughtful brown eyes. With the exception of the mouth, the whole face was both intellectual and spiritual; but there was a certain fulness and sensuous curve of the lips which suggested a strongly emotive and possibly passionate nature under this calm and priestly exterior.

"Yes, I am Doctor Marston," I said, replying to the young clergyman's question. "Can I be of any service to you?"

"On one condition—possibly," replied the young man, taking the seat which I indicated, and fixing his thoughtful brown eyes searchingly upon mine. For a moment we sat gazing intently at each other, and then I said, somewhat abruptly:—

"I beg to know the condition, sir."

"It is this," he replied; "that if I entrust my case to you, 26