the chance that I might be able to please her by making a drawing
of her favorite scene.

Searching for the sketch-book (which I had not used for years), I
found it in an old desk of mine that had remained unopened since
my departure for India. In the course of my investigation, I
opened a drawer in the desk, and discovered a relic of the old
times--my poor little Mary's first work in embroidery, the green
flag!

The sight of the forgotten keepsake took my mind back to the
bailiff's cottage, and reminded me of Dame Dermody, and her
confident prediction about Mary and me.

I smiled as I recalled the old woman's assertion that no human
power could "hinder the union of the kindred spirits of the
children in the time to come." What had become of the prophesied
dreams in which we were to communicate with each other through
the term of our separation? Years had passed; and, sleeping or
waking, I had seen nothing of Mary. Years had passed; and the
first vision of a woman that had come to me had been my dream a
few nights since of the stranger whom I had saved from drowning.
I thought of these chances and changes in my life, but not
contemptuously or bitterly. The new love that was now stealing
its way into my heart had softened and humanized me. I said to
myself, "Ah, poor little Mary!" and I kissed the green flag, in
grateful memory of the days that were gone forever.

We drove to the waterfall.

It was a beautiful day; the lonely sylvan scene was at its
brightest and best. A wooden summer-house, commanding a prospect
of the falling stream, had been built for the accommodation of
pleasure parties by the proprietor of the place. My mother
suggested that I should try to make a sketch of the view from
this point. I did my best to please her, but I was not satisfied
with the result; and I abandoned my drawing before it was half
finished. Leaving my sketch-book and pencil on the table of the
summer-house, I proposed to my mother to cross a little wooden
bridge which spanned the stream, below the fall, and to see how
the landscape looked from a new point of view.

The prospect of the waterfall, as seen from the opposite bank,
presented even greater difficulties, to an amateur artist like
me, than the prospect which he had just left. We returned to the
summer-house.

I was the first to approach the open door. I stopped, checked in
my advance by an unexpected discovery. The summer-house was no
longer empty as we had left it. A lady was seated at the table
with my pencil in her hand, writing in my sketch-book!

After waiting a moment, I advanced a few steps nearer to the
door, and stopped again in breathless amazement. The stranger in
the summer-house was now plainly revealed to me as the woman who
had attempted to destroy herself from the bridge!

There was no doubt about it. There was the dress; there was the
memorable face which I had seen in the evening light, which I had
dreamed of only a few nights since! The woman herself--I saw her
as plainly as I saw the sun shining on the waterfall--the woman
herself, with my pencil in her hand, writing in my book!

My mother was close behind me. She noticed my agitation.
"George!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter with you?"

I pointed through the open door of the summer-house.

"Well?" said my mother. "What am I to look at?"

"Don't you see somebody sitting at the table and writing in my
sketch-book?"

My mother eyed me quickly. "Is he going to be ill again?" I heard
her say to herself.

At the same moment the woman laid down the pencil and rose slowly
to her feet.

She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes: she lifted her
hand and beckoned me to approach her. I obeyed. Moving without
conscious will of my own, drawn nearer and nearer to her by an
irresistible power, I ascended the short flight of stairs which
led into the summer-house. Within a few paces of her I stopped.
She advanced a step toward me, and laid her hand gently on my
bosom. Her touch filled me with strangely united sensations of
rapture and awe. After a while, she spoke in low melodious tones,
which mingled in my ear with the distant murmur of the falling
water, until the two sounds became one. I heard in the murmur, I
heard in the voice, these words: "Remember me. Come to me." Her
hand dropped from my bosom; a momentary obscurity passed like a
flying shadow over the bright daylight in the room. I looked for
her when the light came back. She was gone.

My consciousness of passing events returned.

I saw the lengthening shadows outside, which told me that the
evening was at hand. I saw the carriage approaching the
summerhouse to take us away. I felt my mother's hand on my arm,
and heard her voice speaking to me anxiously. I was able to reply


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