When Henry reached his home, he found that the evening was rapidly coming on, and before he could permit himself to think upon any other subject, he inquired how his terrified sister had passed the hours during his absence. He found that but little improvement had taken place in her, and that she had occasionally slept, but to awaken and speak incoherently, as if the shock she had received had had some serious effect upon her nerves. He repaired at once to her room, and, finding that she was awake, he leaned over her, and spoke tenderly to her. “Flora,” he said, “dear Flora, you are better now?” “Harry, is that you?” “Yes, dear.” “Oh, tell me what has happened?” “Have you not a recollection, Flora?” “Yes, yes, Henry; but what was it? They none of them will tell me what it was, Henry.” “Be calm, dear. No doubt some attempt to rob the house.” “Think you so?” “Yes; the bay window was peculiarly adapted for such a purpose; but now that you are removed here to this room, you will be able to rest in peace.” “I shall die of terror, Henry. Even now those eyes are glaring on me so hideously. Oh, it is fearful—it is very fearful, Henry. Do you not pity me, and no one will promise to remain with me at night.” “Indeed, Flora, you are mistaken, for I intend to sit by your bedside armed, and so preserve you from all harm.” She clutched his hand eagerly, as she said,— “You will, Henry. You will, and not think it too much trouble, dear Henry.” “It can be no trouble, Flora.” “Then I shall rest in peace, for I know that the dreadful vampyre cannot come to me when you are by.” “The what, Flora?” “The vampyre, Henry. It was a vampyre.” “Good God, who told you so?” “No one. I have read of them in the book of travels in Norway, which Mr. Marchdale lent us all.” “Alas, alas!” groaned Henry. “Discard, I pray you, such a thought from your mind.” “Can we discard thoughts. What power have we but from that mind, which is ourselves?” “True, true.” “Hark, what noise is that? I thought I heard a noise. Henry, when you go, ring for some one first. Was there not a noise?” “The accidental shutting of some door, dear.” “Was it that?” “It was.” “Then I am relieved. Henry, I sometimes fancy I am in the tomb, and that some one is feasting on my flesh. They do say, too, that those who in life have been bled by a vampyre, become themselves vampyres, and have the same horrible taste for blood as those before them. Is it not horrible?” “You only vex yourself by such thoughts, Flora. Mr. Chillingworth is coming to see you.” “Can he minister to a mind diseased?” “But yours is not, Flora. Your mind is healthful, and so, although his power extends not so far, we will thank Heaven, dear Flora, that you need it not.” She sighed deeply, as she said,—