un-boats. But it
sounded very far off; a mocking-bird sang close under his window;
the last rosy bar faded from the fleecy cloud bank in the east.
Night came abruptly--the swift Southern darkness quickly emblazoned
with stars; and the whip-poor-wills began their ghostly calling;
and the spectres of the mist crept stealthily inland.

"Celia?"

Her soft voice answered from the darkness near him.

He said: "I knew this was her room before you told me. I have seen
her several times."

"Good God, Phil!" she faltered, "what are you saying?"

"I don't know. . . . I saw her the night I came here."

After a long silence Celia rose and lighted a candle. Holding it a
little above her pallid face she glided to his bedside and looked
down at him. After a moment, bending, she touched his face with
her palm; then her cool finger-tips brushed the quiet pulse at his
wrist.

"Have I any fever?"

"No, Phil."

"I thought not. . . . I saw mother's face a few moments ago in
that mirror behind you."

Celia sank down on the bed's edge, the candle trembling in her
hand. Then, slowly, she turned her head and looked over her
shoulder, moving cautiously, until her fascinated eyes found the
glass behind her. The mirror hung there reflecting the flowered
wall opposite; a corner of the bed; nothing else.

He said in an even voice;

"From the first hour that you brought me into this room, she has
been here. I knew it instantly. . . . The first day she was
behind those curtains--was there a long while. I knew she was
there; I watched the curtains, expecting her to step out. I waited
all day, not understanding that I--that it was better that I should
speak. I fell asleep about dusk. She came out then and sat where
you are sitting."

"It was a dream, Phil. It was fever. Try to realise what you are
saying!"

"I do. The next evening I lay watching; and I saw a figure
reflected in the mirror. It was not yet dusk. Celia, in the
sunset light I saw her standing by the curtains. But it was
star-light before she came to the bed and looked down at me.

"I said very quietly: 'Mother dear!' _Then_ she spoke to me; and I
knew she was speaking, but I could not hear her voice. . . . It
was that way while she stood beside me--I could not hear her,
Celia. I could not hear what she was saying. It was no spirit I
saw--no phantom from the dead there by my bed, no ghost--no
restless wraith, grave-driven through the night. I be