THE landlady was taking the air at her own door when I reachedthe house. Her reply to my inquiries justified my most hopefulanticipations. The poor lodger looked already "like anotherwoman"; and the child was at that moment posted on the stairs,watching for the return of her "new papa."

"There's one thing I should wish to say to you, sir, before yougo upstairs," the woman went on. "Don't trust the lady with moremoney at a time than the money that is wanted for the day'shousekeeping. If she has any to spare, it's as likely as not tobe wasted on her good-for-nothing husband."

Absorbed in the higher and dearer interests that filled my mind,I had thus far forgotten the very existence of Mr. Van Brandt.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Where he ought to be," was the answer. "In prison for debt."

In those days a man imprisoned for debt was not infrequently aman imprisoned for life. There was little fear of my visit beingshortened by the appearance on the scene of Mr. Van Brandt.

Ascending the stairs, I found the child waiting for me on theupper landing, with a ragged doll in her arms. I had bought acake for her on my way to the house. She forthwith turned overthe doll to my care, and, trotting before me into the room withher cake in her arms, announced my arrival in these words:

"Mamma, I like this papa better than the other. You like himbetter, too."

The mother's wasted face reddened for a moment, then turned paleagain, as she held out her hand to me. I looked at her anxiously,and discerned the welcome signs of recovery, clearly revealed.Her grand gray eyes rested on me again with a glimmer of theirold light. The hand that had lain so cold in mine on the pastnight had life and warmth in it now.

"Should I have died before the morning if you had not come here?"she asked, softly. "Have you saved my life for the second time? Ican well believe it."

Before I was aware of her, she bent her head over my hand, andtouched it tenderly with her lips. "I am not an ungratefulwoman," she murmured--"and yet I don't know how to thank you."

The child looked up quickly from her cake. "Why don't you kisshim?" the quaint little creature asked, with a broad stare ofastonishment.

Her head sunk on her breast. She sighed bitterly.

"No more of Me!" she said, suddenly recovering her composure, andsuddenly forcing herself to look at me again. "Tell me what happychance brought you here last night?"

"The same chance," I answered, "which took me to Saint Anthony'sWell."

She raised herself eagerly in the chair.

"You have seen me again--as you saw me in the summer-house by thewaterfall!" she exclaimed. "Was it in Scotland once more?"

"No. Further away than Scotland--as far away as Shetland."

"Tell me about it! Pray, pray tell me about it!"

I related what had happened as exactly as I could, consistentlywith maintaining the strictest reserve on one point. Concealingfrom her the very existence of Miss Dunross, I left her tosuppose that the master of the house was the one person whom Ihad found to receive me during my sojourn under Mr. Dunross'sroof.

"That is strange!" she exclaimed, after she had heard meattentively to the end.

"What is strange?" I asked.

She hesitated, searching my face earnestly with her large graveeyes.

"I hardly like speaking of it," she said. "And yet I ought tohave no concealments in such a matter from you. I understandeverything that you have told me--with one exception. It seemsstrange to me that you should only have had one old man for yourcompanion while you were at the house in Shetland."

"What other companion did you expect to hear of?" I inquired.

"I expected," she answered, "to hear of a lady in the house."

I cannot positively say that the reply took me by surprise: itforced me to reflect before I spoke again. I knew, by my pastexperience, that she must have seen me, in my absence from her,while I was spiritually present to her mind in a trance or dream.Had she also seen the daily companion of my life inShetland--Miss Dunross?

I put the question in a form which left me free to decide whetherI should take her unreservedly into my confidence or not.

"Am I right," I began, "in supposing that you dreamed of me inShetland, as you once before dreamed of me while I was at myhouse in Perthshire?"

"Yes," she answered. "It was at the close of evening, this time.I fell asleep, or became insensible--I cannot say which. And Isaw you again, in a vision or a dream."

"Where did you see me?"

"I first saw you on the bridge over the Scotch river--just as Imet you on the evening when you saved my life. After a while thestream and the landscape about it faded, and you faded with them,into darkness. I waited a little, and the darkness melted awayslowly. I stood, as it seemed to me, in a circle of starrylights; fronting a window, with a lake behind me, and before me adarkened room. And I looked into the room, and the starry lightshowed you to me again."

"When did this happen? Do you remember the date?"

"I remember that it was at the beginning of the month. Themisfortunes which have since brought me so low had not thenfallen on me; and yet, as I stood looking at you, I had thestrangest prevision of calamity that was to come. I felt the sameabsolute reliance on your power to help me that I felt when Ifirst dreamed of you in Scotland. And I did the same familiarthings. I laid my hand on your bosom. I said to you: 'Rememberme. Come to me.' I even wrote--"

She stopped, shuddering as if a sudden fear had laid its hold onher. Seeing this, and dreading the effect of any violentagitation, I hastened to suggest that we should say no more, forthat day, on the subject of her dream.

"No," she answered, firmly. "There is nothing to be gained bygiving me time. My dream has left one horrible remembrance on mymind. As long as I live, I believe I shall tremble when I thinkof what I saw near you in that darkened room."

She stopped again. Was she approaching the subject of theshrouded figure, with the black veil over its head? Was she aboutto describe her first discovery, in the dream, of Miss Dunross?

"Tell me one thing first," she resumed. "Have I been right inwhat I have said to you, so far? Is it true that you were in adarkened room when you saw me?"

"Quite true."

"Was the date the beginning of the month? and was the hour theclose of evening?"

"Yes."

"Were you alone in the room? Answer me truly!"

"I was not alone."

"Was the master of the house with you? or had you some othercompanion?"

It would have been worse than useless (after what I had nowheard) to attempt to deceive her.

"I had another companion," I answered. "The person in the roomwith me was a woman."

Her face showed, as I spoke, that she was again shaken by theterrifying recollection to which she had just alluded. I had, bythis time, some difficulty myself in preserving my composure.Still, I was determined not to let a word escape me which couldoperate as a suggestion on the mind of my companion.

"Have you any other question to ask me?" was all I said.

"One more," she answered. "Was there anything unusual in thedress of your companion?"

"Yes. She wore a long black veil, which hung over her head andface, and dropped to below her waist."

Mrs. Van Brandt leaned back in her chair, and covered her eyeswith her hands.

"I understand your motive for concealing from me the presence ofthat miserable woman in the house," she said. "It is good andkind, like all your motives; but it is useless. While I lay inthe trance I saw everything exactly as it was in the reality; andI, too, saw that frightful face!"

Those words literally electrified me.

My conversation of that morning with my mother instantly recurredto my memory. I started to my feet.

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "what do you mean?"

"Don't you understand yet?" she asked in amazement on her side."Must I speak more plainly still? When you saw the apparition ofme, did you see me write?"

"Yes. On a letter that the lady was writing for me. I saw thewords afterward; the words that brought me to you last night: 'Atthe month's end, In the shadow of Saint Paul's.' "

"How did I appear to write on the unfinished letter?"

"You lifted the writing-case, on which the letter and the penlay, off the lady's lap; and, while you wrote, you rested thecase on her shoulder."

"Did you notice if the lifting of the case produced any effect onher?"

"I saw no effect produced," I answered. "She remained immovablein her chair."

"I saw it differently in my dream. She raised her hand--not thehand that was nearest to you, but nearest to me. As _I_ liftedthe writing-case, _she_ lifted her hand, and parted the folds ofthe veil from off her face--I suppose to see more clearly. It wasonly for a moment; and in that moment I saw what the veil hid.Don't let us speak of it! You must have shuddered at thatfrightful sight in the reality, as I shuddered at it in thedream. You must have asked yourself, as I did: 'Is there nobodyto poison the terrible creature, and hide her mercifully in thegrave?' "

At those words, she abruptly checked herself. I could saynothing--my face spoke for me. She saw it, and guessed the truth.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "you have not seen her! She must havekept her face hidden from you behind the veil! Oh, why, why didyou cheat me into talking of it! I will never speak of it again.See, we are frightening the child! Come here, darling; there isnothing to be afraid of. Come, and bring your cake with you. Youshall be a great lady, giving a grand dinner; and we will be twofriends whom you have invited to dine with you; and the dollshall be the little girl who comes in after dinner, and has fruitat dessert!" So she ran on, trying vainly to forget the shockthat she had inflicted on me in talking nursery nonsense to thechild.

Recovering my composure in some degree, I did my best to secondthe effort that she had made. My quieter thoughts suggested thatshe might well be self-deceived in believing the horriblespectacle presented to her in the vision to be an actualreflection of the truth. In common justice toward Miss Dunross Iought surely not to accept the conviction of her deformity on nobetter evidence than the evidence of a dream? Reasonable as itundoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts still lingering inmy mind. The child's instinct soon discovered that her mother andI were playfellows who felt no genuine enjoyment of the game. Shedismissed her make-believe guests without ceremony, and went backwith her doll to the favorite play-ground on which I had mether--the landing outside the door. No persuasion on her mother'spart or on mine succeeded in luring her back to us. We were lefttogether, to face each other as best we might--with the forbiddensubject of Miss Dunross between us.