r for a moment below, and then the stranger, following the
landlord, ascended the stairs. The door opened, and a man, warmly
muffled up, entered the room. We both rose. He looked at us for a
moment--spoke to me by my name--but I recognized neither his features
nor his voice. One fact, however, was obvious--he was not our
Mephistophiles.

III.

"You have forgotten me," said the stranger. "I am not surprised at it.
Many years have elapsed, and great changes have happened since we
parted."

I scrutinized him carefully. His voice awakened some dim associations,
but nothing distinctly; and I could not recall where or when I had seen
him before. At length, just as I had almost given it up, it burst upon
me all at once.

"Forrester!" I exclaimed.

"You find me altered: but it is only in appearance. We all alter in
time. I hope you will not think I have intruded unwarrantably upon you.
The truth is--but"--and he turned hesitatingly toward Astraea, who was
still standing, looking on, and wondering at the scene before her.

I finished the sentence for him by introducing him to her in a hurried
way. It was the first time such a ceremony had taken place. I did not
know how it was to be done exactly, and felt at a loss how to designate
her. To escape the difficulty, I simply presented him, but did not
repeat her name. The circumstance was trifling in itself, and proceeded,
on my part, from delicacy, rather than any evasion of responsibility;
but I thought Astraea, as she made a very formal courtesy to the
stranger, looked hurt and angry. Slight things were beginning to jar
upon her nerves; and it was not until I noticed the effect of this
trivial action upon her, that I had the least suspicion she would have
even noticed it.

Forrester was much altered. His face had grown thinner, and was bronzed
all over; his figure had spread out, and become gaunt; and his voice had
fallen into a low, husky tone, in which I could trace hardly a single
reminiscence of those modulations in which he used to relate ghost
stories, and other strange narratives, with such wonderful _gusto_ and
effect. The sight of him--seated there in a great cushioned chair by the
fireside that winter's night, talking in his deep voice, brought back a
flood of memories. A youth of mental sorcery and disordered
passion--things inexplicable in themselves, and marvelous in their
issues--returned upon me, bringing with them the awe and superstition of
the old cr