It was true that strange rumors had floated from California to our distant little city in regard to Ackermann. Evil rumors they were--they could scarcely be called rumors--nobody repeated them, nobody believed them--and yet they were whispered into the ear so stealthily that it seemed as if they were breathed by the very air which surrounded Ackermann. I paid no heed to them. Miriam heard them, did not care for them--why should I? Months passed away--happily to the lovers--pleasantly to me. Circumstances then compelled Ackermann to return to our village, while Miriam felt it to be her duty to remain where she was; but she expected to follow him in a few months at latest. He carried with him a letter of introduction to Annie, in which Miriam told her of her engagement to the bearer, and requested Annie to be his friend for her sake. This was soon answered by a characteristic letter from Annie congratulating Miriam on her choice, pronouncing Ackermann the most delightful of men, etc. During the winter which followed, Miriam seemed quietly happy and always pleasant and cheerful. Henry's letters were frequent, and so were Annie's. I did not see the former, but they appeared to afford a great deal of satisfaction to Miriam. Annie's letters were as lively and merry as herself, and contained frequent hints that the devoted attentions of a certain Mr. Etheridge--a wealthy, middle-aged suitor--were not entirely disagreeable to her; that she thought she should like right well to be mistress of his fine mansion; with much more nonsense of the same kind. I should have mentioned that Miriam had never told her lover of the peculiar gifts of prophecy and second sight which she had, or fancied that she had. She was too happy at the time he was with her to be visited by her 'visions.' I thought they had ceased altogether, and I think Miriam believed they had, and was happy to be done with them forever. I was quite surprised then to see her walk into my room one day in a hurried manner, with a face ghastly pale, and eyes unusually distended, and gazing at me with a wild, fixed stare. She trembled exceedingly, and tried to speak, but the words refused to come at her bidding. I was much alarmed, and, remembering there was a glass of wine in the closet, I brought it to her, but she motioned it away. I opened the window, and the rush of cold air revived her. She sat down by it, and after a little time, she said: 'Hester, do you remember the little sitting room of Annie's, at the foot of the back stairs, with windows opening into the garden?' 'Yes, I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?' 'She has had it newly furnished, and very elegantly.' 'How do you know?' 'Because I was there this afternoon; spent some time in it.' 'You! in Annie's room!' _I_ was there, in Annie's room--that is, the only part of me that is worth anything; my body remained here, in my own room, I suppose.'