Priscilla had not yet been twelve hours at St. Benet’s, and yet almost every student she had met had spoken of Annabel Lee— had spoken of her with interest, with regret. One girl had gone further than this; she had breathed her name with bitter sorrow. Priscilla wished she had not been put into this room. She felt absolutely nervous; she had a sense of usurping some one else’s place, of turning somebody else out into the cold. She did not believe in ghosts, but she had an uncomfortable sensation, and it would not have greatly surprised her if Annabel had come gliding back in the night watches to put the finishing touches to those scrolls of wild flowers which ornamented the panels of the doors, and to the design of the briar-rose which ran round the frieze of the room. Annabel might come in, and pursue this work in stealthy spirit fashion, and then glide up to her, and ask her to get out of this little white bed, and let the strange visitor, to whom it had once belonged, rest in it herself once more. Annabel Lee! It was a queer name— a wild, bewitching sort of a name— the name of a girl in a song. Priscilla knew many of Poe’s strange songs, and she found herself now murmuring some words which used to fascinate her long ago: “And the angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee! “But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.” Some ashes fell from the expiring fire; Priscilla jumped up in bed with a start. Her heart was beating fast. She thought of Maggie’s exquisite face. She remembered it as she had seen it that night when they were sitting by the fire, as she had seen it last, when it turned so white and the eyes blazed at her in anger. Priscilla stretched out her hand for a box of matches. She would light her candle, and, as there was no chance of her going to sleep, sit up, put her dressing-jacket on and begin to write a long letter home to Aunt Raby and to her little sisters. Such methodical work would calm nerves not often so highly strung. She rose, and fetching her neat little leather writing-case from where she had placed it on the top of her bureau, prepared to open it. The little case was locked. Priscilla went over to her curtained wardrobe, pushed it aside and felt in the pocket of the dress she had worn that day for her purse. It was not there. Within that purse the little key was safely hiding, but the purse itself was nowhere to be found.