sio suffering now?" asked Matilde, gravely but eagerly, after a
moment's pause.

"I will ask him." And another brief pause followed. "Yes," continued the
voice. "He is suffering because he has left you. He suffers remorse. He
cannot be happy unless he can communicate with you."

"Can you see him? Can you see his face?"

"Yes," replied the voice, without hesitation. "He is very pale. His hair
is soft, brown, and silky, with a few grey streaks in it. His eyes are
gentle and tender, and his beard is like his hair, soft and like silk.
He is as you last saw him alive, when you kissed him by the fireplace in
the room that is yellow, just before he died. He loves you, as he did
then."

Such evidence of unnatural knowledge might have convinced a more
sceptical mind than Matilde's of the fact that the somnambulist could at
least read her thoughts and memories from her mind as from a book. It
was impossible that any one but herself could know how, and in what
room, she had kissed him for the last time, a few minutes before his
end. Again the cold shiver ran under her hair, and she could not speak
again for a few moments.

"Does he know what I am going to do to-day?" she asked at last, in a
very low voice.

"I will ask him."

The silence which followed was the longest of all that there had been.

"I cannot see him any more," said the voice, speaking more faintly. "He
is gone. He will communicate with you again. I cannot find him. Giuditta
is tired--she will--" The last words were hardly audible, and the voice
died away altogether.

In the dark, Matilde heard something like a yawn, as of a person waking
from sleep. Then Giuditta's croaking voice spoke to her.

"I am tired," she said. "The spirits have kept me a long time. Did you
hear anything that you wished to hear?"

"Yes. I heard much."

While Matilde was speaking, the woman drew the curtain back, and the
dull steel light of the gloomy day filled the small room. But after the
darkness it was almost dazzling. Matilde looked at Giuditta's face, and
saw the same staring, china eyes, and the same listless expression in
the unhealthy features. She had felt a sensation of relief when the
voice had been unable to answer the last question she had asked; for she
still thought that there might be a doubt as to Giuditta's total
forgetfulness on waking. But that doubt was greatly diminished by the
woman's indifferent and weary look.

"I hope that he will not torment me so