She leaned down towards me, her arm lay on my neck, and drew my head till it rested on her shoulder. "I am a ghost, I suppose," she said, laughing softly; and her laughter stirred memories which I just grasped at, and just missed. "But you and I know better, don't we? I will tell you everything you have forgotten. We loved each other--ah! no, you have not forgotten that--and when you came back from the war we were to be married. Our pictures were painted before you went away. You know I was more learned than women of that day. Dear one, when you were gone they said I was a witch. They tried me. They said I should be burned. Just because I had looked at the stars and had gained more knowledge than they, they must needs bind me to a stake and let me be eaten by the fire. And you far away!" Her whole body trembled and shrank. O love, what dream would have told me that my kisses would soothe even that memory? "The night before," she went on, "the devil did come to me. I was innocent before--you know it, don't you? And even then my sin was for you--for you--because of the exceeding love I bore you. The devil came, and I sold my soul to eternal flame. But I got a good price. I got the right to come back, through my picture (if any one looking at it wished for me), as long as my picture stayed in its ebony frame. That frame was not carved by man's hand. I got the right to come back to you. Oh, my heart's heart, and another thing I won, which you shall hear anon. They burned me for a witch, they made me suffer hell on earth. Those faces, all crowding round, the crackling wood and the smell of the smoke----" "O love! no more--no more." "When my mother sat that night before my picture she wept, and cried, 'Come back, my poor lost child!' And I went to her, with glad leaps of heart. Dear, she shrank from me, she fled, she shrieked and moaned of ghosts. She had our pictures covered from sight and put again in the ebony frame. She had promised me my picture should stay always there. Ah, through all these years your face was against mine." She paused. "But the man you loved?" "You came home. My picture was gone. They lied to you, and you married another woman; but some day I knew you would walk the world again and that I should find you." "The other gain?" I asked. "The other gain," she said slowly, "I gave my soul for. It is this. If you also will give up your hopes of heaven I can remain a woman, I can move in your world--I can be your wife. Oh, my dear, after all these years, at last--at last." "If I sacrifice my soul," I said slowly, with no thought of the imbecility of such talk in our "so-called nineteenth century"--"if I sacrifice my soul, I win you? Why, love, it's a contradiction in terms. You _are_ my soul." Her eyes looked straight into mine. Whatever might happen, whatever did happen, whatever may happen, our two souls in that moment met, and became one.