e. In a swift, merciful flame the last
of my mortal emotions--gross and tenacious they must have been--was
consumed. My cold grasp of Allan loosened and a new unearthly love of
him bloomed in my heart.

I was now, however, in a difficulty with which my experience in the
newer state was scarcely sufficient to deal. How could I make it plain
to Allan and Theresa that I wished to bring them together, to heal the
wounds that I had made?

Pityingly, remorsefully, I lingered near them all that night and the
next day. And by that time had brought myself to the point of a great
determination. In the little time that was left, before Theresa should
be gone and Allan bereft and desolate, I saw the one way that lay open
to me to convince them of my acquiescence in their destiny.

In the deepest darkness and silence of the next night I made a greater
effort than it will ever be necessary for me to make again. When they
think of me, Allan and Theresa, I pray now that they will recall what I
did that night, and that my thousand frustrations and selfishnesses may
shrivel and be blown from their indulgent memories.

Yet the following morning, as she had planned, Theresa appeared at
breakfast dressed for her journey. Above in her room there were the
sounds of departure. They spoke little during the brief meal, but when
it was ended Allan said:

"Theresa, there is half an hour before you go. Will you come upstairs
with me? I had a dream that I must tell you of."

"Allan!" She looked at him, frightened, but went with him. "It was of
Frances you dreamed," she said, quietly, as they entered the library
together.

"Did I say it was a dream? But I was awake--thoroughly awake. I had not
been sleeping well, and I heard, twice, the striking of the clock. And
as I lay there, looking out at the stars, and thinking--thinking of you,
Theresa,--she came to me, stood there before me, in my room. It was no
sheeted specter, you understand; it was Frances, literally she. In some
inexplicable fashion I seemed to be aware that she wanted to make me
know something, and I waited, watching her face. After a few moments it
came. She did not speak, precisely. That is, I am sure I heard no sound.
Yet the words that came from her were definite enough. She said: 'Don't
let Theresa leave you. Take her and keep her.' Then she went away. Was
that a dream?"

"I had not meant to tell you," Theresa eagerly answered, "but now I
must. It is too wonderful. What t