My resolution as to my next course of proceeding is formed
without a moment's hesitation. I determine to leave the hotel
privately the next morning before Sir James is out of his
bedroom.

To what destination I am to betake myself is naturally the next
question that arises, and this also I easily decide. During the
last days of my mother's life we spoke together frequently of the
happy past days when we were living together on the banks of the
Greenwater lake. The longing thus inspired to look once more at
the old scenes, to live for a while again among the old
associations, has grown on me since my mother's death. I have,
happily for myself, not spoken of this feeling to Sir James or to
any other person. When I am missed at the hotel, there will be no
suspicion of the direction in which I have turned my steps. To
the old home in Suffolk I resolve to go the next morning.
Wandering among the scenes of my boyhood, I can consider with
myself how I may best bear the burden of the life that lies
before me.

After what I have heard that evening, I confide in nobody. For
all I know to the contrary, my own servant may be employed
to-morrow as the spy who watches my actions. When the man makes
his appearance to take his orders for the night, I tell him to
wake me at six the next morning, and release him from further
attendance.

I next employ myself in writing two letters. They will be left on
the table, to speak for themselves after my departure.

In the first letter I briefly inform Sir James that I have
discovered his true reason for inviting the doctor to dinner.
While I thank him for the interest he takes in my welfare, I
decline to be made the object of any further medical inquiries as
to the state of my mind. In due course of time, when my plans are
settled, he will hear from me again. Meanwhile, he need feel no
anxiety about my safety. It is one among my other delusions to
believe that I am still perfectly capable of taking care of
myself. My second letter is addressed to the landlord of the
hotel, and simply provides for the disposal of my luggage and the
payment of my bill.

I enter my bedroom next, and pack a traveling-bag with the few
things that I can carry with me. My money is in my dressing-case.
Opening it, I discover my pretty keepsake--the green flag! Can I
return to "Greenwater Broad," can I look again at the bailiff's
cottage, without the one memorial of little Mary that I possess?
Besides, have I not promised Miss Dunross that Mary's gift shall
always go with me wherever I go? and is the promise not doubly
sacred now that she is dead? For a while I sit idly looking at
the device on the flag--the white dove embroidered on the green
ground, with the golden olive-branch in its beak. The innocent
love-story of my early life returns to my memory, and shows me in
horrible contrast the life that I am leading now. I fold up the
flag and place it carefully in my traveling-bag. This done, all
is done. I may rest till the morning comes.

No! I lie down on my bed, and I discover that there is no rest
for me that night.

Now that I have no occupation to keep my energies employed, now
that my first sense of triumph in the discomfiture of the friends
who have plotted against me has had time to subside, my mind
reverts to the conversation that I have overheard, and considers
it from a new point of view. For the first time, the terrible
question confronts me: The doctor's opinion on my case has been
given very positively. How do I know that the doctor is not
right?

This famous physician has risen to the head of his profession
entirely by his own abilities. He is one of the medical men who
succeed by means of an ingratiating manner and the dexterous
handling of good opportunities. Even his enemies admit that he
stands unrivaled in the art of separating the true conditions
from the false in the discovery of disease, and in tracing
effects accurately to their distant and hidden cause. Is such a
man as this likely to be mistaken about me? Is it not far more
probable that I am mistaken in my judgment of myself?

When I look back over the past years, am I quite sure that the
strange events which I recall may not, in certain cases, be the
visionary product of my own disordered brain--realities to me,
and to no one else? What are the dreams of Mrs. Van Brandt? What
are the ghostly apparitions of her which I believe myself to have
seen? Delusions which have been the stealthy growth of years?
delusions which are leading me, by slow degrees, nearer and
nearer to madness in the end? Is it insane suspicion which has
made me so angry with the good friends who have been trying to
save my reason? Is it insane terror which sets me on escaping
from the hotel like a criminal escaping from prison?

These are the questions which torment me when I am alone in the
dead of night. My bed becomes a place of unendurable torture. I
rise and dress myself, and wait for the daylight, looking through
my open window into the street.

The summer night is short. The gray light of dawn comes to me
like a deliverance; the glow of the glorious sunrise cheers my
soul once more. Why should I wait in the room that is still


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