“Heaven help me! I know not, Henry. The dreadful being held on by my hair. I must have it all taken off. I tried to get away, but it dragged me back—a brutal thing it was. Oh, then at that moment, Henry, I felt as if something strange took place in my brain, and that I was going mad! I saw those glazed eyes close to, mine—I felt a hot, pestiferous breath upon my face—help—help!” “Hush! my Flora, hush! Look at me.” “I am calm again. It fixed its teeth in my throat. Did I faint away?” “You did, dear; but let me pray you to refer all this to imagination; or at least the greater part of it.” “But you saw it.” “Yes——” “All saw it.” “We all saw some man—a housebreaker—it must have been some housebreaker. What more easy, you know, dear Flora, than to assume some such disguise?” “Was anything stolen?” “Not that I know of; but there was an alarm, you know.” Flora shook her head, as she said, in a low voice,— “That which came here was more than mortal. Oh, Henry, if it had but killed me, now I had been happy; but I cannot live—I hear it breathing now.” “Talk of something else, dear Flora,” said the much distressed Henry; “you will make yourself much worse, if you indulge yourself in these strange fancies.” “Oh, that they were but fancies!” “They are, believe me.” “There is a strange confusion in my brain, and sleep comes over me suddenly, when I least expect it. Henry, Henry, what I was, I shall never, never be again.” “Say not so. All this will pass away like a dream, and leave so faint a trace upon your memory, that the time will come when you will wonder it ever made so deep an impression on your mind.” “You utter these words, Henry,” she said, “but they do not come from your heart. Ah, no, no, no! Who comes?” The door was opened by Mrs. Bannerworth, who said,— “It is only me, my dear. Henry, here is Dr. Chillingworth in the dining-room.” Henry turned to Flora, saying,— “You will see him, dear Flora? You know Mr. Chillingworth well.” “Yes, Henry, yes, I will see him, or whoever you please.” “Shew Mr. Chillingworth up,” said Henry to the servant. In a few moments the medical man was in the room, and he at once approached the bedside to speak to Flora, upon whose pale countenance he looked with evident interest, while at the same time it seemed mingled with a painful feeling—at least so his own face indicated. “Well, Miss Bannerworth,” he said, “what is all this I hear about an ugly dream you have had?” “A dream?” said Flora, as she fixed her beautiful eyes on his face. “Yes, as I understand.” She shuddered, and was silent. “Was it not a dream, then?” added Mr. Chillingworth. She wrung her hands, and in a voice of extreme anguish and pathos, said,— “Would it were a dream—would it were a dream! Oh, if any one could but convince me it was a dream!” “Well, will you tell me what it was?” “Yes, sir, it was a vampyre.” Mr. Chillingworth glanced at Henry, as he said, in reply to Flora’s words,—