"I comprehend nothing, Pierre; there is nothing these eyes have ever looked upon, Pierre, that this soul comprehended. Ever, as now, do I go all a-grope amid the wide mysteriousness of things. Yes, she shall come; it is only one mystery the more. Doth she talk in her sleep, Pierre? Would it be well, if I slept with her, my brother?" "On thy account; wishful for thy sake; to leave thee incommoded; and--and--not knowing precisely how things really are;--she probably anticipates and desires otherwise, my sister." She gazed steadfastly at his outwardly firm, but not interiorly unfaltering aspect; and then dropped her glance in silence. "Yes, she shall come, my brother; she shall come. But it weaves its thread into the general riddle, my brother.--Hath she that which they call the memory, Pierre; the memory? Hath she that?" "We all have the memory, my sister." "Not all! not all!--poor Bell hath but very little. Pierre! I have seen her in some dream. She is fair-haired--blue eyes--she is not quite so tall as I, yet a very little slighter." Pierre started. "Thou hast seen Lucy Tartan, at Saddle Meadows?" "Is Lucy Tartan the name?--Perhaps, perhaps;--but also, in the dream, Pierre; she came, with her blue eyes turned beseechingly on me; she seemed as if persuading me from thee;--methought she was then more than thy cousin;--methought she was that good angel, which some say, hovers over every human soul; and methought--oh, methought that I was thy other,--thy other angel, Pierre. Look: see these eyes,--this hair--nay, this cheek;--all dark, dark, dark,--and she--the blue-eyed--the fair-haired--oh, once the red-cheeked!" She tossed her ebon tresses over her; she fixed her ebon eyes on him. "Say, Pierre; doth not a funerealness invest me? Was ever hearse so plumed?--Oh, God! that I had been born with blue eyes, and fair hair! Those make the livery of heaven! Heard ye ever yet of a good angel with dark eyes, Pierre?--no, no, no--all blue, blue, blue--heaven's own blue--the clear, vivid, unspeakable blue, which we see in June skies, when all clouds are swept by.--But the good angel shall come to thee, Pierre. Then both will be close by thee, my brother; and thou mayest perhaps elect,--elect!--She shall come; she shall come.--When is it to be, dear Pierre?" "To-morrow, Isabel. So it is here written." She fixed her eye on the crumpled billet in his hand. "It were vile to ask, but not wrong to suppose the asking.--Pierre,--no, I need not say it,--wouldst thou?" "No; I would not let thee read it, my sister; I would not; because I have no right to--no right--no right;--that is it; no: I have no right. I will burn it this instant, Isabel." He stepped from her into the adjoining room; threw the billet into the stove, and watching its last ashes, returned to Isabel. She looked with endless intimations upon him.