What nights I had now, watching and striving lest unawares I should fall into the exercise of my new power! I allowed myself to think of her as much as I pleased in the daytime, or at least as much as I dared; for when occupied with my pupils, I dreaded lest any abstraction should even hint that I had a thought to conceal. I knew that I could not hurt her then; for that only in the night did she enter that state of existence in which my will could exercise authority over her. But at night--at night--when I knew she lay there, and might be lying here; when but a thought would bring her, and that thought was fluttering its wings, ready to spring awake out of the dreams of my heart--then the struggle was fearful. And what added force to the temptation was, that to call her to me in the night, seemed like calling the real immortal Alice forth from the tomb in which she wandered about all day. It was as painful to me to see her such in the day, as it was entracing to remember her such as I had seen her in the night. What matter if her true self came forth in anger against me? What was I? It was enough for my life, I said, to look on her, such as she really was. “Bring her yet once, and tell her all--tell her how madly, hopelessly you love her. She will forgive you at least,” said a voice within me. But I heard it as the voice of the tempter, and kept down the thought which might have grown to the will. CHAPTER XI _A New Pupil_. One day, exactly three weeks after her last visit to my room, as I was sitting with my three pupils in the schoolroom, Lady Alice entered, and began to look on the bookshelves as if she wanted some volume. After a few moments, she turned, and, approaching the table, said to me, in an abrupt, yet hesitating way. “Mr. Campbell, I cannot spell. How am I to learn?” I thought for a moment, and replied: “Copy a passage every day, Lady Alice, from some favourite book. Then, if you allow me, I shall be most happy to point out any mistakes you may have made.” “Thank you, Mr. Campbell, I will; but I am afraid you will despise me, when you find how badly I spell.” “There is no fear of that,” I rejoined. “It is a mere peculiarity. So long as one can _think_ well, spelling is altogether secondary.” “Thank you; I will try,” she said, and left the room. Next day, she brought me an old ballad, written tolerably, but in a school-girl’s hand. She had copied the antique spelling, letter for letter. “This is quite correct,” I said; “but to copy such as this will not teach you properly; for it is very old, and consequently old-fashioned.” “Is it old? Don’t we spell like that now? You see I do not know anything about it. You must set me a task, then.”