she had newly furnished it. Write to her, and ask her
to describe her room to you, and you will find that I have seen all that
I have told you.'

Finding her so calm, and so willing to reason on what she had seen, I
ventured to ask:

'And what did Ackermann say to her?'

'Only a very little thing,' said she, with bitter emphasis. 'That he
loved her--and admired me; she stirred the depths of his heart--I
excited his intellect; she was his darling--I, his sphinx.'

'Are you sure it is not all a dream?'

'I have not closed my eyes to-day.'

I did not know what to say to her. I still thought what she had related
was but a delusion, but to her it was a reality, and I knew her outward
calmness was but the expression of intense excitement of mind. Thinking
I might divert her mind, I read to her a letter I had received but a few
minutes before. It was from my sister, who had just returned from
Europe, with her husband and children; and had taken a house in our
native village. She wished me to come to her at once. At any other time
Miriam would have manifested the greatest interest in this
communication. It had been a source of regret to her that I was
separated from this sister, who was the only near relative I had. Now
she sat, perfectly unmoved, gazing out into the sunshine as if it
bewildered her. I did not know whether she had heard a word I said. I
laid down the letter, and took up a book, glancing at her occasionally.
I continued reading for about two hours, while she sat there as if
turned to stone. Then she turned to me and said:

'Hester, would you not like to see your sister very much?'

'Very much.'

'Then let us return home at once.'

'I am very willing.'

'Mr. Sydenham leaves here to-morrow night for New York. Let us go with
him.'

I hesitated. It seemed such a hasty departure from the friends who had
been so kind to us, but a glance at the pale, eager face of Miriam
decided me. I consented.

The nest day brought a letter from Ackermann. Miriam showed it to me. It
was the only letter of his I was ever permitted to read. It was a good
letter--very lover-like, but earnest and manly. It seemed to me the
truth of the writer was palpable in every line.

'Of course this has removed all your doubts,' I said, as I returned the
letter to Miriam.

'It has not shaken my faith in the evidence of the finest of my senses,'
was her only reply.

Since we had left our pretty little village, a railroad track ha