ith a feeling of blissful
satisfaction which I have never exactly realised either before or since
that one occasion.

"_Everything is all right--nothing can really ever go wrong--nothing at
least that matters at all. All the real things are all right. I can
never doubt the truth of these things after this experience. It was
promised, and the promise has been redeemed._" These were the thoughts
that passed idly through my brain as I lay--fully awake--and looked up
at the comforting woman's figure. For it seemed more--much more--than a
mere vision. I have spoken of the figure as diaphanous because it was
not as solid as an ordinary human being, but, on the other hand, I could
not see the wall through it: it was too solid for that. Then I
remembered a story told in _The Athenaeum_--of all papers--and written by
a Dr Jephson, of his experience whilst paying a visit to Lord Offord,
and making notes--late at night--in the library of the house for some
literary work on hand. He had finished his notes, put away the book of
reference, looked at his watch, found the hands marking two A.M. (so
far as I remember), and had just said to himself: "Well, I shall be in
bed by two-thirty after all," when, turning round, he found a large
leather chair close to his own, tenanted by a Spanish priest in some
ancient dress!

Thinking it might be an hallucination, he deliberately turned
round--_away_ from the priest--rubbed his eyes, and then slowly looked
back again. Still the priest was there, and Dr Jephson then realised for
the first time that, although not _consciously frightened_ or alarmed in
any way, he was quite unable to _speak_ to the intruder. So he quietly
chose a pencil, sat down, and calmly took his portrait. The priest
politely remained until the sketch was completed, and then vanished.

This story, read some years previously, flashed through my brain, and I
thought: "_I_ will try turning round, and then seeing if she is still
there." I turned deliberately, facing the window, and then realised that
it was pitch dark in my room--not the faintest glimmer of light came
through the heavily shrouded window. "_Then it can't be four o'clock_,"
was my triumphant comment.

It would have been too disappointing had my distinguished visitor
condoned the unblushing banging down four times of the table leg, by
choosing that hour for her arrival in my room! But then again, how could
I _see_ her, since the room was quite dark? It was only