_New Entrenchments._ But this way of breaking into the house every night did not afford me the facility I wished. For I wanted to see Lady Alice during the day, or at least in the evening before she went to sleep; as otherwise I could not thoroughly judge of her condition. So I got Wood to pack up a small stock of provisions for me in his haversack, which I took with me; and when I entered the house that night, I bolted the door of the court behind me, and made all fast. I waited till the usual time for her appearance had passed; and, always apprehensive now, as was very natural, I had begun to grow uneasy, when I heard her voice, as I had heard it once before, singing. Fearful of disturbing her, I listened for a moment. Whether the song was her own or not, I cannot be certain. When I questioned her afterwards, she knew nothing about it. It was this,-- Days of old, Ye are not dead, though gone from me; Ye are not cold, But like the summer-birds gone o’er the sea. The sun brings back the swallows fast, O’er the sea: When thou comest at the last, The days of old come back to me. She ceased singing. Still she did not enter. I went into the closet, and found that the door was bolted. When I opened it, she entered, as usual; and, when she came to herself, seemed still better than before. “Duncan,” she said, “I don’t know how it is, but I believe I must have forgotten everything I ever knew. I feel as if I had. I don’t think I can even read. Will you teach me my letters?” She had a book in her hand. I hailed this as another sign that her waking and sleeping thoughts bordered on each other; for she must have taken the book during her somnambulic condition. I did as she desired. She seemed to know nothing till I told her. But the moment I told her anything, she knew it perfectly. Before she left me that night she was reading tolerably, with many pauses of laughter that she should ever have forgotten how. The moment she shared the light of my mind, all was plain; where that had not shone, all was dark. The fact was, she was living still in the shadow of that shock which her nervous constitution had received from our discovery and my ejection. As she was leaving me, I said, “Shall you be in the haunted room at sunset tomorrow, Alice?” “Of course I shall,” she answered. “You will find me there then,” I rejoined--“that is, if you think there is no danger of being seen.” “Not the least,” she answered. “No one follows me there; not even Mrs. Blakesley, good soul! They are all afraid, as usual.” “And you won’t be frightened to see me there?” “Frightened? No. Why? Oh! you think me queer too, do you?” She looked vexed, but tried to smile. “I? I would trust you with my life,” I said. “That’s not much, though--with my soul, whatever that means, Alice.” “Then don’t talk nonsense,” she rejoined coaxingly, “about my being frightened to see you.”