the secretary, wrote, beneath the name:

Quiet to the breast
Wheresoe'er it be,
That gave an hour's rest
To the heart of me.
Quiet to the breast
Till it lieth dead,
And the heart be clay
Where I visited.
Quiet to the breast,
Though forgetting quite
The guest it sheltered once;
To the heart, good night!

Handing her the card he bowed, and, through force of habit, turned to
the door, forgetting that his ghostly pressure would not turn the knob.

As the door did not open, with a sigh of recollection for his spiritual
condition, he prepared to disappear, casting one last look at the
faithless Lady. She was still looking at the card in her hand, and the
tears ran down her face.

"She has remembered," he reflected; "how courteous!" For a moment it
seemed he could contain his disappointment, discreetly removing himself
now at what he felt was the vanishing-point, with the customary
reticence of the dead, but feeling overcame him. In an instant he had
her in his arms, and was pouring out his love, his reproaches, the story
of his longing, his doubts, his discontent, and his desperate journey
back to earth for a sight of her. "And, ah!" cried he, "picture my agony
at finding that you had forgotten. And yet I surmised it in the gloom.
I divined it by my restlessness and my despair. Perhaps some lines that
occurred to me will suggest the thing to you--you recall my old knack
for versification?

"Where the grasses weep
O'er his darkling bed,
And the glow-worms creep,
Lies the weary head
Of one laid deep, who cannot sleep:
The unremembered dead."

He took a chair beside her, and spoke of their old love for each other,
of his fealty through all transmutations; incidentally of her beauty, of
her cruelty, of the light of her face which had illumined his darksome
way to her--and of a lot of other things--and the Lady bowed her head,
and wept.

The hours of the night passed thus: the moon waned, and a pallor began
to tinge the dusky cheek of the east, but the eloquence of the visitor
still flowed on, and the Lady had his misty hands clasped to her
reawakened bosom. At last a suspicion of rosiness touched the curtain.
He abruptly rose.

"I cannot hold out against the morning," he said; "it is time all good
ghosts were in bed."

But she threw herself on her knees before him, clasping his ethereal
waist with a despairing embrace.