And she arose, and Sophie followed her. Emily assisted her off with her dress, and taking a bottle of cologne, washed her face and head until she looked better; and then, as they rested on the bed, she said,— “Now, Sophie, tell me about this forest fright, for there is more in it than you would confess to any one but me.” “Perhaps you will think it imagination, or nothing, yet, as we entered the deep dell, just a quarter of a mile behind the church, I happened to turn my head, and low, crouched down to the ground, I saw—” “What?” “The wannest, most spectral face that could be conceived, with wild eyes and streaming hair.” “A runaway mulatto!” “I tell you _no_! The face was whiter than snow—the eyes blue, and blazing in their steady gaze upon me; the hair golden, streaked with silver. The skeleton hand was like a bird’s claw with emaciation, and the finger pointed to the minister.” Emily listened with an incredulous smile, then she said— “A figure conjured up by imagination, Sophie—a mere creature of your disordered nerves. You should read Sir Walter Scott’s letters on Demonology, and then you would understand. But, dear, how do you and the minister get on? Do you know I think you are a favorite with him.” “Oh! God forbid!” said Sophie, clasping her hands. “Why, my dear, what is the matter?” “_Oh!_ I have such an antipathy to him—such a sickening, deadly antipathy to him; when his eyes meet mine, or his hand falls upon mine, a cold chill runs all through me, and I grow blind and faint.” “Well, my love, fortunately you are not obliged to like him. Yet he will be very popular, Sophie. Did you observe the even unusual respect paid him by his congregation to-day? His sermon made a marked impression. All the widows and girls will be setting their caps for him, but you, I think, will win the prize.” “Emily, I am going home to-morrow.” “_No_, my love, no; why, what put that into your head?” “I do not like to stay here; I do not like Mr. Withers, and I do not like the tone of your conversation so soon after your husband’s death.” The tears overflowed Emily’s eyes. “I am wrong—I am wrong, to forget for a moment the loss of so kind a friend; and yet, Sophie, death never did make me gloomy. Sickness does, suffering does, but I quite as often envy as regret the departed. Think, Sophie, he has rejoined in heaven the wife of his youth and middle life, ‘the Michal of his bloom,’ whom he loved as he never could love _me_, ‘the Abishag of his age.’ She was his companion for time and for eternity; I, only a fellow-passenger for a short stage—the _end_ of his journey, the _beginning_ of mine.” Here a summons to tea broke up their conference. They dressed and went out; the minister was there before them. They sat down to tea.