next sentence. The light faded and faded; the room grew darker
and darker. I went on.

"I hope I shall cause you no more anxiety, my dear mother, on the
subject of Mrs. Van Brandt."

In the deep silence I could hear the pen of my secretary
traveling steadily over the paper while it wrote those words.

"Have you written?" I asked, as the sound of the pen ceased.

"I have written," she answered, in her customary quiet tones.

I went on again with my letter.

"The days pass now, and I seldom or never think of her; I hope I
am resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt."

As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry from
Miss Dunross. Looking instantly toward her, I could just see, in
the deepening darkness, t hat her head had fallen on the back of
the chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise and go to
her. I had barely got to my feet, when some indescribable dread
paralyzed me on the instant. Supporting myself against the
chimney-piece, I stood perfectly incapable of advancing a step.
The effort to speak was the one effort that I could make.

"Are you ill?" I asked.

She was hardly able to answer me; speaking in a whisper, without
raising her head.

"I am frightened," she said.

"What has frightened you?"

I heard her shudder in the darkness. Instead of answering me, she
whispered to herself: "What am I to say to him?"

"Tell me what has frightened you?" I repeated. "You know you may
trust me with the truth."

She rallied her sinking strength. She answered in these strange
words:

"Something has come between me and the letter that I am writing
for you."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you."

"Can you see it?"

"No."

"Can you feel it?"

"Yes!"

"What is it like?"

"Like a breath of cold air between me and the letter."

"Has the window come open?"

"The window is close shut."

"And the door?"

"The door is shut also--as well as I can see. Make sure of it for
yourself. Where are you? What are you doing?"

I was looking toward the window. As she spoke her last words, I
was conscious of a change in that part of the room.

In the gap between the parted curtains there was a new light
shining; not the dim gray twilight of Nature, but a pure and
starry radiance, a pale, unearthly light. While I watched it, the
starry radiance quivered as if some breath of air had stirred it.
When it was still again, there dawned on me through the unearthly
luster the figure of a woman. By fine and slow gradations, it
became more and more distinct. I knew the noble figure; I knew
the sad and tender smile. For the second time I stood in the
presence of the apparition of Mrs. Van Brandt.

She was robed, not as I had last seen her, but in the dress which
she had worn on the memorable evening when we met on the
bridge--in the dress in which she had first appeared to me, by
the waterfall in Scotland. The starry light shone round her like
a halo. She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes, as she
had looked when I saw the apparition of her in the summer-house.
She lifted her hand--not beckoning me to approach her, as before,
but gently signing to me to remain where I stood.

I waited--feeling awe, but no fear. My heart was all hers as I
looked at her.

She moved; gliding from the window to the chair in which Miss
Dunross sat; winding her way slowly round it, until she stood at


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