I saw at once that the old spell was on her again, and, as I made it a point to fall in with her humor on such occasions, I said: 'Well, what did you see there?' 'I saw an open piano, and books and music scattered around. There were a great many flowers in the room. A bright fire was in the grate, and Pompey--the house dog--was stretched on a rug before it. A large easy-chair, covered with blue damask, stood near the fireplace. Henry Ackermann was seated in it. Annie was kneeling before him. He talked to her while he stroked her hair. I heard every word that he said.' Here she paused. I was getting quite excited with her narrative, but I spoke as calmly as I could: 'You have only fancied these things, Miriam. You are ill.' 'The _material_ part of my nature may be ill. I do not know. But the _immaterial_ is sound and healthy. It sometimes leaves its grosser companion, and makes discoveries for itself. This is not the first time it has happened, as you well know. I have been particular in my description, in order that I might convince you that I have actually been there. You know that the description I have given is entirely different from the appearance of Annie's room in former times. I have never heard that she had newly furnished it. Write to her, and ask her to describe her room to you, and you will find that I have seen all that I have told you.' Finding her so calm, and so willing to reason on what she had seen, I ventured to ask: 'And what did Ackermann say to her?' 'Only a very little thing,' said she, with bitter emphasis. 'That he loved her--and admired me; she stirred the depths of his heart--I excited his intellect; she was his darling--I, his sphinx.' 'Are you sure it is not all a dream?' 'I have not closed my eyes to-day.' I did not know what to say to her. I still thought what she had related was but a delusion, but to her it was a reality, and I knew her outward calmness was but the expression of intense excitement of mind. Thinking I might divert her mind, I read to her a letter I had received but a few minutes before. It was from my sister, who had just returned from Europe, with her husband and children; and had taken a house in our native village. She wished me to come to her at once. At any other time Miriam would have manifested the greatest interest in this communication. It had been a source of regret to her that I was separated from this sister, who was the only near relative I had. Now she sat, perfectly unmoved, gazing out into the sunshine as if it bewildered her. I did not know whether she had heard a word I said. I laid down the letter, and took up a book, glancing at her occasionally. I continued reading for about two hours, while she sat there as if turned to stone. Then she turned to me and said: 'Hester, would you not like to see your sister very much?' 'Very much.' 'Then let us return home at once.' 'I am very willing.'