The Golden Ingot

I had just retired to rest, with my eyes almost blind with the study
of a new work on physiology by M. Brown-Sequard, when the night bell
was pulled violently.

It was winter, and I confess I grumbled as I rose and went downstairs
to open the door. Twice that week I had been aroused long after
midnight for the most trivial causes. Once, to attend upon the son and
heir of a wealthy family, who had cut his thumb with a penknife,
which, it seems, he insisted on taking to bed with him; and once, to
restore a young gentleman to consciousness, who had been found by his
horrified parent stretched insensible on the staircase. Diachylon in
the one case and ammonia in the other were all that my patients
required; and I had a faint suspicion that the present summons was
perhaps occasioned by no case more necessitous than those I have
quoted. I was too young in my profession, however, to neglect
opportunities. It is only when a physician rises to a very large
practice that he can afford to be inconsiderate. I was on the first
step of the ladder, so I humbly opened my door.

A woman was standing ankle deep in the snow that lay upon the stoop. I
caught but a dim glimpse of her form, for the night was cloudy; but I
could hear her teeth rattling like castanets, and, as the sharp wind
blew her clothes close to her form, I could discern from the sharpness
of the outlines that she was very scantily supplied with raiment.

"Come in, come in, my good woman," I said hastily, for the wind seemed
to catch eagerly at the opportunity of making itself at home in my
hall, and was rapidly forcing an entrance through the half--open door.
"Come in, you can tell me all you have to communicate inside."

She slipped in like a ghost, and I closed the door. While I was
striking a light in my office, I could hear her teeth still clicking
out in the dark hall, till it seemed as if some skeleton was
chattering. As soon as I obtained a light I begged her to enter the
room, and, without occupying myself particularly about her appearance,
asked her abruptly what her business was.

"My father has met with a severe accident," she said, "and requires
instant surgical aid. I entreat you to come to him immediately."

The freshness and the melody of her voice startled me. Such voices
rarely, if ever, issue from any but beautiful forms. I looked at her
attentively, but, owing to a nondescript species of shawl in which her
head was wrapped, I could discern nothing beyond what seemed to be a
pale, thin face and large eyes. Her dress was lamentable. An old silk,
of a color now unrecognizable, clung to her figure in those limp folds
which are so eloquent of misery. The creases where it had been folded
were worn nearly through, and the edges of the skirt had decayed into
a species of irregular fringe, which was clotted and discolored with
mud. Her shoes---which were but half concealed by this scanty
garment--were shapeless and soft with moisture. Her hands were hidden
under the ends of the shawl which covered her head and hung down over
a bust, the outlines of which, although angular, seemed to possess
grace. Poverty, when partially shrouded, seldom fails to interest:
witness the statue of the Veiled Beggar, by Monti.