Nor were there wanting still other, and far more wonderful, though but dimly conscious influences in the breast of Pierre, to meet as repellants the imploring form. Not to speak of his being devoured by the all-exacting theme of his book, there were sinister preoccupations in him of a still subtler and more fearful sort, of which some inklings have already been given. It was while seated solitary in his room one morning; his flagging faculties seeking a momentary respite; his head sideways turned toward the naked floor, following the seams in it, which, as wires, led straight from where he sat to the connecting door, and disappeared beneath it into the chamber of Isabel; that he started at a tap at that very door, followed by the wonted, low, sweet voice,-- "Pierre! a letter for thee--dost thou hear? a letter,--may I come in?" At once he felt a dart of surprise and apprehension; for he was precisely in that general condition with respect to the outer world, that he could not reasonably look for any tidings but disastrous, or at least, unwelcome ones. He assented; and Isabel entered, holding out the billet in her hand. "'Tis from some lady, Pierre; who can it be?--not thy mother though, of that I am certain;--the expression of her face, as seen by me, not at all answering to the expression of this handwriting here." "My mother? from my mother?" muttered Pierre, in wild vacancy--"no! no! it can scarce be from her.--Oh, she writes no more, even in her own private tablets now! Death hath stolen the last leaf, and rubbed all out, to scribble his own ineffaceable _hic jacet_ there!" "Pierre!" cried Isabel, in affright. "Give it me!" he shouted, vehemently, extending his hand. "Forgive me, sweet, sweet Isabel, I have wandered in my mind; this book makes me mad. There; I have it now"--in a tone of indifference--"now, leave me again. It is from some pretty aunt, or cousin, I suppose," carelessly balancing the letter in his hand. Isabel quitted the room; the moment the door closed upon her, Pierre eagerly split open the letter, and read:-- II. "This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre I feel stronger to-day; for to-day I have still more thought of thine own superhuman, angelical strength; which so, has a very little been transferred to me. Oh, Pierre, Pierre, with what words shall I write thee now;--now, when still knowing nothing, yet something of thy secret I, as a seer, suspect. Grief,--deep, unspeakable grief, hath made me this seer. I could murder myself, Pierre, when I think of my previous blindness; but that only came from my swoon. It was horrible and most murdersome; but now I see thou wert right in being so instantaneous with me, and in never afterward writing to me, Pierre; yes, now I see it, and adore thee the more.