She tried to set the example of laughing at me--with the tears in
her eyes, poor soul! as she made the useless effort. I began to
regret having opened my mind so freely to her.

"Don't take the matter too seriously, mother," I said. "Perhaps I
may not be able to find the place. I never heard of Saint
Anthony's Well; I have not the least idea where it is. Suppose I
make the discovery, and suppose the journey turns out to be an
easy one, would you like to go with me?"

"God forbid" cried my mother, fervently. "I will have nothing to
do with it, George. You are in a state of delusion; I shall speak
to the doctor."

"By all means, my dear mother. Mr. MacGlue is a sensible person.
We pass his house on our way home, and we will ask him to dinner.
In the meantime, let us say no more on the subject till we see
the doctor."

I spoke lightly, but I really meant what I said. My mind was
sadly disturbed; my nerves were so shaken that the slightest
noises on the road startled me. The opinion of a man like Mr.
MacGlue, who looked at all mortal matters from the same immovably
practical point of view, might really have its use, in my case,
as a species of moral remedy.


We waited until the dessert was on the table, and the servants
had left the dining-room. Then I told my story to the Scotch
doctor as I have told it here; and, that done, I opened the
sketch-book to let him see the writing for himself.

Had I turned to the wrong page?

I started to my feet, and held the book close to the light of the
lamp that hung over the dining table. No: I had found the right
page. There was my half-finished drawing of the waterfall--but
where were the two lines of writing beneath?

Gone!

I strained my eyes; I looked and looked. And the blank white
paper looked back at me.

I placed the open leaf before my mother. "You saw it as plainly
as I did," I said. "Are my own eyes deceiving me? Look at the
bottom of the page."

My mother sunk back in her chair with a cry of terror.

"Gone?" I asked.

"Gone!"

I turned to the doctor. He took me completely by surprise. No
incredulous smile appeared on his face; no jesting words passed
his lips. He was listening to us attentively. He was waiting
gravely to hear more.

"I declare to you, on my word of honor," I said to him, "that I
saw the apparition writing with my pencil at the bottom of that
page. I declare that I took the book in my hand, and saw these
words written in it, 'When the full moon shines on Saint
Anthony's Well.' Not more than three hours have passed since that
time; and, see for yourself, not a vestige of the writing
remains."

"Not a vestige of the writing remains, " Mr. MacGlue repeated,
quietly.

"If you feel the slightest doubt of what I have told you," I went
on, "ask my mother; she will bear witness that she saw the
writing too."

"I don't doubt that you both saw the writing," answered Mr.
MacGlue, with a composure that surprised me.

"Can you account for it?" I asked.

"Well," said the impenetrable doctor, "if I set my wits at work,
I believe I might account for it to the satisfaction of some
people. For example, I might give you what they call the rational
explanation, to begin with. I might say that you are, to my
certain knowledge, in a highly excited nervous condition; and
that, when you saw the apparition (as you call it), you simply
saw nothing but your own strong impression of an absent woman,
who (as I greatly fear) has got on the weak or amatory side of
you. I mean no offense, Mr. Germaine--"

"I take no offense, doctor. But excuse me for speaking
plainly--the rational explanation is thrown away on me."

"I'll readily excuse you," answered Mr. MacGlue; "the rather that
I'm entirely of your opinion. I don't believe in the rational
explanation myself."

This was surprising, to say the least of it. "What _do_ you
believe in?" I inquired.

Mr. MacGlue declined to let me hurry him.


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