She continued to talk, using all the arguments of a hard woman of the world, with a nervous, sensitive, and somewhat visionary girl, and at the end of two hours more, left Sophie very well prepared to receive, or _rather_, very incapable of resisting her destiny and her master. It was near sunset when the lady’s carriage rolled away from the door. When she was gone Sophie sank down on the steps of the piazza, and resting her elbows on her knees, dropped her face into the palms of her hands, and gave herself up to despair. She sat there until the sun went down—she sat until the stars came out—she sat there until she felt a light hand fall upon the top of her head. She looked up, and the phantom of the forest dell stood before her, the same wan, spectral face—the same large, intense, blue eyes, blazing in their hollow sockets, surrounded by their livid, bluish circle—the same streaming yellow hair, with its streaks of grey—the same emaciated claw-like fingers. Her intense gaze sought and met Sophie’s eyes, and she knew that her visitor was a denizen of earth. She remained gazing into Sophie’s eyes a minute, and then she broke forth with terrible energy:— “_Do not marry him!_—risk—suffer _anything_ but that! _Do not marry him!_ Be true to your instincts—they warned you at your first meeting, they warn you _now_! Be true to your instincts! They were given you of God for your protection; it is a sin—it is a _sin_ to disregard them, and the punishment—the punishment will be more than you can bear!—a broken heart!—a maddened brain!—at least—_at least_ a blighted life! Look at me!” She tore the mantle from her breast and displayed a skeleton form, to which the tight skin clung. “Who are you, in the name of Heaven?” “I _am_ a shadow—a memory—a _warning_! I _was_ his wife!” “Great God!” Sophie raised her eyes just in time to see the tall figure of the minister near the shadowy woman, and his strong hand fell upon her shoulder. He had approached unperceived. She shrieked—sprang from under his grasp, and fled towards the river. He looked after her in dismay, apparently with an impulse of pursuit. When she had disappeared over the cliff, and down the bank, he turned to Sophie. “Who is that woman, Sophie?” “YOUR WIFE!” said the girl, raising her eyes bravely now to meet his gaze. “You were always a little brainsick, Miss Churchill, but really this—or perhaps you are only jesting.” “Do I look like jesting? Is yonder unfortunate a subject for jest?” “Then you are clearly insane—moon-struck as your lunatic visitor. Pray can you tell me what put such an extravagant idea into your head?” “Her own word.” “Her own word—the mad fancy of a maniac!” “At least, Mr. Withers, you will not think of pressing your suit, or even renewing a single visit, after such a revelation.”