wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She
never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words,
for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said,
'Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here.'

"How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman
held her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the
other room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed
out, closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of
the inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and
must have fallen asleep in my chair.

"I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of
the kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my
chair to hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and
my wife sat with her elbows on the table and her head between her
hands, watching me with a look in her eyes that was new to me.

"She kissed me, though her lips were cold; and I argued to myself that
the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the day, passing
the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take the
kerchief from a locked chest and look at it.

"I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that
all the rest has been my imagination; that, if not, then my strange
visitant was no spirit, but a woman; and that, if human thing knows
human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me
last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is
a three-hours' climb to a strong man, and the paths are dangerous even
in daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What
woman would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood
flow cold through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to
her. I will stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing
or only air."

_The fifth letter_:

"MY DEAR JOYCE,--Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is
doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read
to you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may
one day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you,
can laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide
away,--putting the words down on paper saves my screaming the