THE moments passed; the silence between us continued. MissDunross made an attempt to rouse me.

"Have you decided to go back to Scotland with your friends atLerwick?" she asked.

"It is no easy matter," I replied, "to decide on leaving myfriends in this house."

Her head drooped lower on her bosom; her voice sunk as sheanswered me.

"Think of your mother," she said. "The first duty you owe is yourduty to her. Your long absence is a heavy trial to her--yourmother is suffering."

"Suffering?" I repeated. "Her letters say nothing--"

"You forget that you have allowed me to read her letters," MissDunross interposed. "I see the unwritten and unconsciousconfession of anxiety in every line that she writes to you. Youknow, as well as I do, that there is cause for her anxiety. Makeher happy by telling her that you sail for home with yourfriends. Make her happier still by telling her that you grieve nomore over the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt. May I write it, in yourname and in those words?"

I felt the strangest reluctance to permit her to write in thoseterms, or in any terms, of Mrs. Van Brandt. The unhappylove-story of my manhood had never been a forbidden subjectbetween us on former occasions. Why did I feel as if it hadbecome a forbidden subject now? Why did I evade giving her adirect reply?

"We have plenty of time before us," I said. "I want to speak toyou about yourself."

She lifted her hand in the obscurity that surrounded her, as ifto protest against the topic to which I had returned. Ipersisted, nevertheless, in returning to it.

"If I must go back," I went on, "I may venture to say to you atparting what I have not said yet. I cannot, and will not, believethat you are an incurable invalid. My education, as I have toldyou, has been the education of a medical man. I am wellacquainted with some of the greatest living physicians, inEdinburgh as well as in London. Will you allow me to describeyour malady (as I understand it) to men who are accustomed totreat cases of intricate nervous disorder? And will you let mewrite and tell you the result?"

I waited for her reply. Neither by word nor sign did sheencourage the idea of any future communication with her. Iventured to suggest another motive which might induce her toreceive a letter from me.

"In any case, I may find it necessary to write to you," I wenton. "You firmly believe that I and my little Mary are destined tomeet again. If your anticipations are realized, you will expectme to tell you of it, surely?"

Once more I waited. She spoke--but it was not to reply: it wasonly to change the subject.

"The time is passing," was all she said. "We have not begun yourletter to your mother yet."

It would have been cruel to contend with her any longer. Hervoice warned me that she was suffering. The faint gleam of lightthrough the parted curtains was fading fast. It was time, indeed,to write the letter. I could find other opportunities of speakingto her before I left the house.

"I am ready," I answered. "Let us begin."

The first sentence was easily dictated to my patient secretary. Iinformed my mother that my sprained wrist was nearly restored touse, and that nothing prevented my leaving Shetland when thelighthouse commissioner was ready to return. This was all that itwas necessary to say on the subject of my health; the disaster ofmy re-opened wound having been, for obvious reasons, concealedfrom my mother's knowledge. Miss Dunross silently wrote theopening lines of the letter, and waited for the words that wereto follow.

In my next sentence, I announced the date at which the vessel wasto sail on the return voyage; and I mentioned the period at whichmy mother might expect to see me, weather permitting. Thosewords, also, Miss Dunross wrote--and waited again. I set myselfto consider what I should say next. To my surprise and alarm, Ifound it impossible to fix my mind on the subject. My thoughtswandered away, in the strangest manner, from my letter to Mrs.Van Brandt. I was ashamed of myself; I was angry with myself--Iresolved, no matter what I said, that I would positively finishthe letter. No! try as I might, the utmost effort of my willavailed me nothing. Mrs. Van Brandt's words at our last interviewwere murmuring in my ears--not a word of my own would come to me!

Miss Dunross laid down her pen, and slowly turned her head tolook at me.

"Surely you have something more to add to your letter?" she said.

"Certainly," I answered. "I don't know what is the matter withme. The effort of dictating seems to be beyond my power thisevening."

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I gladly accepted the suggestion. "There are many things," Isaid, "which my mother would be glad to hear, if I were not toostupid to think of them. I am sure I may trust your sympathy tothink of them for me."

That rash answer offered Miss Dunross the opportunity ofreturning to the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt. She seized theopportunity with a woman's persistent resolution when she has herend in view, and is determined to reach it at all hazards.

"You have not told your mother yet," she said, "that yourinfatuation for Mrs. Van Brandt is at an end. Will you put it inyour own words? Or shall I write it for you, imitating yourlanguage as well as I can?"

In the state of my mind at that moment, her perseveranceconquered me. I thought to myself indolently, "If I say No, shewill only return to the subject again, and she will end (afterall I owe to her kindness) in making me say Yes." Before I couldanswer her she had realized my anticipations. She returned to thesubject; and she made me say Yes.

"What does your silence mean?" she said. "Do you ask me to helpyou, and do you refuse to accept the first suggestion I offer?"

"Take up your pen," I rejoined. "It shall be as you wish."

"Will you dictate the words?"

"I will try."

I tried; and this time I succeeded. With the image of Mrs. VanBrandt vividly present to my mind, I arranged the first words ofthe sentence which was to tell my mother that my "infatuation"was at an end!

"You will be glad to hear," I began, "that time and change aredoing their good work."

Miss Dunross wrote the words, and paused in anticipation of thenext sentence. The light faded and faded; the room grew darkerand darker. I went on.

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

In the deep silence I could hear the pen of my secretarytraveling 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 Iam resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt."

As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry fromMiss Dunross. Looking instantly toward her, I could just see, inthe deepening darkness, t hat her head had fallen on the back ofthe chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise and go toher. I had barely got to my feet, when some indescribable dreadparalyzed me on the instant. Supporting myself against thechimney-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, withoutraising her head.

"I am frightened," she said.

"What has frightened you?"

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

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

She rallied her sinking strength. She answered in these strangewords:

"Something has come between me and the letter that I am writingfor 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 foryourself. Where are you? What are you doing?"

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

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

She was robed, not as I had last seen her, but in the dress whichshe had worn on the memorable evening when we met on thebridge--in the dress in which she had first appeared to me, bythe waterfall in Scotland. The starry light shone round her likea halo. She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes, as shehad 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 Ilooked at her.

She moved; gliding from the window to the chair in which MissDunross sat; winding her way slowly round it, until she stood atthe back. By the light of the pale halo that encircled theghostly Presence, and moved with it, I could see the dark figureof the living woman seated immovable in the chair. Thewriting-case was on her lap, with the letter and the pen lying onit. Her arms hung helpless at her sides; her veiled head was nowbent forward. She looked as if she had been struck to stone inthe act of trying to rise from her seat.

A moment passed--and I saw the ghostly Presence stoop over theliving woman. It lifted the writing-case from her lap. It restedthe writing-case on her shoulder. Its white fingers took the penand wrote on the unfinished letter. It put the writing-case backon the lap of the living woman. Still standing behind the chair,it turned toward me. It looked at me once more. And now itbeckoned--beckoned to me to approach.

Moving without conscious will of my own, as I had moved when Ifirst saw her in the summer-house--drawn nearer and nearer by anirresistible power--I approached and stopped within a few pacesof her. She advanced and laid her hand on my bosom. Again I feltthose strangely mingled sensations of rapture and awe, which hadonce before filled me when I was conscious, spiritually, of hertouch. Again she spoke, in the low, melodious tones which Irecalled so well. Again she said the words: "Remember me. Come tome." Her hand dropped from my bosom. The pale light in which shestood quivered, sunk, vanished. I saw the twilight glimmeringbetween the curtains--and I saw no more. She had spoken. She hadgone.

I was near Miss Dunross--near enough, when I put out my hand, totouch her.

She started and shuddered, like a woman suddenly awakened from adreadful dream.

"Speak to me!" she whispered. "Let me know that it is _you_ whotouched me."

I spoke a few composing words before I questioned her.

"Have you seen anything in the room?"

She answered. "I have been filled with a deadly fear. I have seennothing but the writing-case lifted from my lap."

"Did you see the hand that lifted it?"

"No."

"Did you see a starry light, and a figure standing in it?"

"No."

"Did you see the writing-case after it was lifted from your lap?"

"I saw it resting on my shoulder."

"Did you see writing on the letter, which was not _your_writing?"

"I saw a darker shadow on the paper than the shadow in which I amsitting."

"Did it move?"

"It moved across the paper."

"As a pen moves in writing?"

"Yes. As a pen moves in writing."

"May I take the letter?"

She handed it to me.

"May I light a candle?"

She drew her veil more closely over her face, and bowed insilence.

I lighted the candle on the mantel-piece, and looked for thewriting.

There, on the blank space in the letter, as I had seen it beforeon the blank space in the sketch-book--there were the writtenwords which the ghostly Presence had left behind it; arrangedonce more in two lines, as I copy them here:

At the month's end, In the shadow of Saint Paul's.