Ghastly and cold, colourless in its leaden face and hands, but with his features, and his bright eyes, and his grizzled hair, and dressed in the gloomy shadow of his dress, it came into his terrible appearance of existence, motionless, without a sound. As _he_ leaned his arm upon the elbow of his chair, ruminating before the fire, _it_ leaned upon the chair-back, close above him, with its appalling copy of his face looking where his face looked, and bearing the expression his face bore. This, then, was the Something that had passed and gone already. This was the dread companion of the haunted man! It took, for some moments, no more apparent heed of him, than he of it. The Christmas Waits were playing somewhere in the distance, and, through his thoughtfulness, he seemed to listen to the music. It seemed to listen too. At length he spoke; without moving or lifting up his face. “Here again!” he said. “Here again,” replied the Phantom. “I see you in the fire,” said the haunted man; “I hear you in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night.” The Phantom moved its head, assenting. “Why do you come, to haunt me thus?” “I come as I am called,” replied the Ghost. “No. Unbidden,” exclaimed the Chemist. “Unbidden be it,” said the Spectre. “It is enough. I am here.” Hitherto the light of the fire had shone on the two faces—if the dread lineaments behind the chair might be called a face—both addressed towards it, as at first, and neither looking at the other. But, now, the haunted man turned, suddenly, and stared upon the Ghost. The Ghost, as sudden in its motion, passed to before the chair, and stared on him. The living man, and the animated image of himself dead, might so have looked, the one upon the other. An awful survey, in a lonely and remote part of an empty old pile of building, on a winter night, with the loud wind going by upon its journey of mystery—whence or whither, no man knowing since the world began—and the stars, in unimaginable millions, glittering through it, from eternal space, where the world’s bulk is as a grain, and its hoary age is infancy. “Look upon me!” said the Spectre. “I am he, neglected in my youth, and miserably poor, who strove and suffered, and still strove and suffered, until I hewed out knowledge from the mine where it was buried, and made rugged steps thereof, for my worn feet to rest and rise on.” “I _am_ that man,” returned the Chemist. “No mother’s self-denying love,” pursued the Phantom, “no father’s counsel, aided _me_. A stranger came into my father’s place when I was but a child, and I was easily an alien from my mother’s heart. My parents, at the best, were of that sort whose care soon ends, and whose duty is soon done; who cast their offspring loose, early, as birds do theirs; and, if they do well, claim the merit; and, if ill, the pity.” It paused, and seemed to tempt and goad him with its look, and with the manner of its speech, and with its smile.