I POINTED to the writing in the sketch book, and looked at mymother. I was not mistaken. She _had_ seen it, as I had seen it.But she refused to acknowledge that anything had happened toalarm her--plainly as I could detect it in her face.

"Somebody has been playing a trick on you, George," she said.

I made no reply. It was needless to say anything. My poor motherwas evidently as far from being satisfied with her own shallowexplanation as I was. The carriage waited for us at the door. Weset forth in silence on our drive home.

The sketch-book lay open on my knee. My eyes were fastened on it;my mind was absorbed in recalling the moment when the apparitionbeckoned me into the summer-house and spoke. Putting the wordsand the writing together, the conclusion was too plain to bemistaken. The woman whom I had saved from drowning had need of meagain.

And this was the same woman who, in her own proper person, hadnot hesitated to seize the first opportunity of leaving the housein which we had been sheltered together--without stopping to sayone grateful word to the man who had preserved her from death!Four days only had elapsed since she had left me, never (to allappearance) to see me again. And now the ghostly apparition ofher had returned as to a tried and trusted friend; had commandedme to remember her and to go to her; and had provided against allpossibility of my memory playing me false, by writing the wordswhich invited me to meet her "when the full moon shone on SaintAnthony's Well."

What had happened in the interval? What did the supernaturalmanner of her communication with me mean? What ought my nextcourse of action to be?

My mother roused me from my reflections. She stretched out herhand, and suddenly closed the open book on my knee, as if thesight of the writing in it were unendurable to her.

"Why don't you speak to me, George?" she said. "Why do you keepyour thoughts to yourself?"

"My mind is lost in confusion," I answered. "I can suggestnothing and explain nothing. My thoughts are all bent on the onequestion of what I am to do next. On that point I believe I maysay that my mind is made up." I touched the sketch-book as Ispoke. "Come what may of it," I said, "I mean to keep theappointment."

My mother looked at me as if she doubted the evidence of her ownsenses.

"He talks as if it were a real thing!" she exclaimed. "George,you don't really believe that you saw somebody in thesummer-house? The place was empty. I tell you positively, whenyou pointed into the summer-house, the place was empty. You havebeen thinking and thinking of this woman till you persuadeyourself that you have actually seen her."

I opened the sketch-book again. "I thought I saw her writing onthis page," I answered. "Look at it, and tell me if I was wrong."

My mother refused to look at it. Steadily as she persisted intaking the rational view, nevertheless the writing frightenedher.

"It is not a week yet," she went on, "since I saw you lyingbetween life and death in your bed at the inn. How can you talkof keeping the appointment, in your state of health? Anappointment with a shadowy Something in your own imagination,which appears and disappears, and leaves substantial writingbehind it! It's ridiculous, George; I wonder you can helplaughing at yourself."

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

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

"God forbid" cried my mother, fervently. "I will have nothing todo with it, George. You are in a state of delusion; I shall speakto 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 seethe doctor."

I spoke lightly, but I really meant what I said. My mind wassadly disturbed; my nerves were so shaken that the slightestnoises on the road startled me. The opinion of a man like Mr.MacGlue, who looked at all mortal matters from the same immovablypractical 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 servantshad left the dining-room. Then I told my story to the Scotchdoctor as I have told it here; and, that done, I opened thesketch-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 thelamp that hung over the dining table. No: I had found the rightpage. There was my half-finished drawing of the waterfall--butwhere were the two lines of writing beneath?

Gone!

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

I placed the open leaf before my mother. "You saw it as plainlyas I did," I said. "Are my own eyes deceiving me? Look at thebottom 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. Noincredulous smile appeared on his face; no jesting words passedhis lips. He was listening to us attentively. He was waitinggravely to hear more.

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

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

"If you feel the slightest doubt of what I have told you," I wenton, "ask my mother; she will bear witness that she saw thewriting 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 somepeople. For example, I might give you what they call the rationalexplanation, to begin with. I might say that you are, to mycertain knowledge, in a highly excited nervous condition; andthat, when you saw the apparition (as you call it), you simplysaw nothing but your own strong impression of an absent woman,who (as I greatly fear) has got on the weak or amatory side ofyou. I mean no offense, Mr. Germaine--"

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

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

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

Mr. MacGlue declined to let me hurry him.

"Wait a little," he said. "There's the _ir_rational explanationto try next. Maybe it will fit itself to the present state ofyour mind better than the other. We will say this time that youhave really seen the ghost (or double) of a living person. Verygood. If you can suppose a disembodied spirit to appear inearthly clothing--of silk or merino, as the case may be--it's nogreat stretch to suppose, next, that this same spirit is capableof holding a mortal pencil, and of writing mortal words in amortal sketching-book. And if the ghost vanishes (which yourghost did), it seems supernaturally appropriate that the writingshould follow the example and vanish too. And the reason of thevanishment may be (if you want a reason), either that the ghostdoes not like letting a stranger like me into its secrets, orthat vanishing is a settled habit of ghosts and of everythingassociated with them, or that this ghost has changed its mind inthe course of three hours (being the ghost of a woman, I am surethat's not wonderful), and doesn't care to see you 'when the fullmoon shines on Saint Anthony's Well.' There's the _ir_rationalexplanation for you. And, speaking for myself, I'm bound to addthat I don't set a pin's value on _that_ explanation either."

Mr. MacGlue's sublime indifference to both sides of the questionbegan to irritate me.

"In plain words, doctor," I said, "you don't think thecircumstances that I have mentioned to you worthy of seriousinvestigation?"

"I don't think serious investigation capable of dealing with thecircumstances," answered the doctor. "Put it in that way, and youput it right. Just look round you. Here we three persons arealive and hearty at this snug table. If (which God forbid!) goodMistress Germaine or yourself were to fall down dead in anothermoment, I, doctor as I am, could no more explain what firstprinciple of life and movement had been suddenly extinguished inyou than the dog there sleeping on the hearth-rug. If I amcontent to sit down ignorant in the face of such an impenetrablemystery as this--presented to me, day after day, every time I seea living creature come into the world or go out of it--why may Inot sit down content in the face of your lady in thesummer-house, and say she's altogether beyond my fathoming, andthere is an end of her?"

At those words my mother joined in the conversation for the firsttime.

"Ah, sir," she said, "if you could only persuade my son to takeyour sensible view, how happy I should be! Would you believeit?--he positively means (if he can find the place) to go toSaint Anthony's Well!"

Even this revelation entirely failed to surprise Mr. MacGlue.

"Ay, ay. He means to keep his appointment with the ghost, doeshe? Well, I can be of some service to him if he sticks to hisresolution. I can tell him of another man who kept a writtenappointment with a ghost, and what came of it."

This was a startling announcement. Did he really mean what hesaid?

"Are you in jest or in earnest?" I asked.

"I never joke, sir," said Mr. MacGlue. "No sick person reallybelieves in a doctor who jokes. I defy you to show me a man atthe head of our profession who has ever been discovered in highspirits (in medical hours) by his nearest and dearest friend. Youmay have wondered, I dare say, at seeing me take your strangenarrative as coolly as I do. It comes naturally, sir. Yours isnot the first story of a ghost and a pencil that I have heard."

"Do you mean to tell me," I said, "that you know of another manwho has seen what I have seen?"

"That's just what I mean to tell you," rejoined the doctor. "Theman was a far-away Scots cousin of my late wife, who bore thehonorable name of Bruce, and followed a seafaring life. I'll takeanother glass of the sherry wine, just to wet my whistle, as thevulgar saying is, before I begin. Well, you must know, Bruce wasmate of a bark at the time I'm speaking of, and he was on avoyage from Liverpool to New Brunswick. At noon one day, he andthe captain, having taken their observation of the sun, were hardat it below, working out the latitude and longitude on theirslates. Bruce, in his cabin, looked across through the open doorof the captain's cabin opposite. 'What do you make it, sir?' saysBrace. The man in the captain's cabin looked up. And what didBruce see? The face of the captain? Devil a bit of it--the faceof a total stranger! Up jumps Bruce, with his heart going fullgallop all in a moment, and searches for the captain on deck, andfinds him much as usual, with his calculations done, and hislatitude and longitude off his mind for the day. 'There'ssomebody at your des k, sir,' says Bruce. 'He's writing on yourslate; and he's a total stranger to me.' 'A stranger in mycabin?' says the captain. 'Why, Mr. Bruce, the ship has been sixweeks out of port. How did he get on board?' Bruce doesn't knowhow, but he sticks to his story. Away goes the captain, andbursts like a whirlwind into his cabin, and finds nobody there.Bruce himself is obliged to acknowledge that the place iscertainly empty. 'If I didn't know you were a sober man,' saysthe captain, 'I should charge you with drinking. As it is, I'llhold you accountable for nothing worse than dreaming. Don't do itagain, Mr. Bruce.' Bruce sticks to his story; Bruce swears he sawthe man writing on the captain's slate. The captain takes up theslate and looks at it. 'Lord save us and bless us!' says he;'here the writing is, sure enough !' Bruce looks at it too, andsees the writing as plainly as can be, in these words: 'Steer tothe nor'-west.' That, and no more.--Ah, goodness me, narrating isdry work, Mr. Germaine. With your leave, I'll take another dropof the sherry wine.

"Well (it's fine old wine, that; look at the oily drops runningdown the glass)--well, steering to the north-west, you willunderstand, was out of the captain's course. Nevertheless,finding no solution of the mystery on board the ship, and theweather at the time being fine, the captain determined, while thedaylight lasted, to alter his course, and see what came of it.Toward three o'clock in the afternoon an iceberg came of it; witha wrecked ship stove in, and frozen fast to the ice; and thepassengers and crew nigh to death with cold and exhaustion.Wonderful enough, you will say; but more remains behind. As themate was helping one of the rescued passengers up the side of thebark, who should he turn out to be but the very man whose ghostlyappearance Bruce had seen in the captain's cabin writing on thecaptain's slate! And more than that--if your capacity for beingsurprised isn't clean worn out by this time--the passengerrecognized the bark as the very vessel which he had seen in adream at noon that day. He had even spoken of it to one of theofficers on board the wrecked ship when he woke. 'We shall berescued to-day,' he had said; and he had exactly described therig of the bark hours and hours before the vessel herself hove inview. Now you know, Mr. Germaine, how my wife's far-away cousinkept an appointment with a ghost, and what came of it."*

Concluding his story in these words, the doctor helped himself toanother glass of the "sherry wine." I was not satisfied yet; Iwanted to know more.

"The writing on the slate," I said. "Did it remain there, or didit vanish like the writing in my book?"

Mr. MacGlue's answer disappointed me. He had never asked, and hadnever heard, whether the writing had remained or not. He had toldme all that he knew, and he had but one thing more to say, andthat was in the nature of a remark with a moral attached to it."There's a marvelous resemblance, Mr. Germaine, between yourstory and Bruce's story. The main difference, as I see it, isthis. The passenger's appointment proved to be the salvation of awhole ship's company. I very much doubt whether the lady'sappointment will prove to be the salvation of You."

I silently reconsidered the strange narrative which had just beenrelated to me. Another man had seen what I had seen--had donewhat I proposed to do! My mother noticed with grave displeasurethe strong impression which Mr. MacGlue had produced on my mind.

"I wish you had kept your story to yourself, doctor," she said,sharply.

"May I ask why, madam?"

"You have confirmed my son, sir, in his resolution to go to SaintAnthony's Well."

Mr. MacGlue quietly consulted his pocket almanac before hereplied.

"It's the full moon on the ninth of the month," he said. "Thatgives Mr. Germaine some days of rest, ma'am,. before he takes thejourney. If he travels in his own comfortable carriage--whateverI may think, morally speaking, of his enterprise--I can't say,medically speaking, that I believe it will do him much harm."

"You know where Saint Anthony's Well is?" I interposed.

"I must be mighty ignorant of Edinburgh not to know that,"replied the doctor.

"Is the Well in Edinburgh, then?"

"It's just outside Edinburgh--looks down on it, as you may say.You follow the old street called the Canongate to the end. Youturn to your right past the famous Palace of Holyrood; you crossthe Park and the Drive, and take your way upward to the ruins ofAnthony's Chapel, on the shoulder of the hill--and there you are!There's a high rock behind the chapel, and at the foot of it youwill find the spring they call Anthony's Well. It's thought apretty view by moonlight; and they tell me it's no longer besetat night by bad characters, as it used to be in the old time."

My mother, in graver and graver displeasure, rose to retire tothe drawing-room.

"I confess you have disappointed me," she said to Mr. MacGlue. "Ishould have thought you would have been the last man to encouragemy son in an act of imprudence."

"Craving your pardon, madam, your son requires no encouragement.I can see for myself that his mind is made up. Where is the useof a person like me trying to stop him? Dear madam, if he won'tprofit by your advice, what hope can I have that he will takemine?"

Mr. MacGlue pointed this artful compliment by a bow of thedeepest respect, and threw open the door for my mother to passout.

When we were left together over our wine, I asked the doctor howsoon I might safely start on my journey to Edinburgh.

"Take two days to do the journey, and you may start, if you'rebent on it, at the beginning of the week. But mind this," addedthe prudent doctor, "though I own I'm anxious to hear what comesof your expedition--understand at the same time, so far as thelady is concerned, that I wash my hands of the consequences." --* The doctor's narrative is not imaginary. It will be foundrelated in full detail, and authenticated by names and dates, inRobert Dale Owen's very interesting work called "Footfalls on theBoundary of Another World." The author gladly takes thisopportunity of acknowledging his obligations to Mr. Owen'sremarkable book.