His study adjoined the library. A number of letters had been accumulated into a heap upon the writing-table. Blanden glanced hastily at the caligraphy of the addresses, most of which indicated letters containing business matters. Beside them lay his album, its clasp stood open; he looked inside, and on the last page read the following verse in the same handwriting-- "Oh, bliss is but a fleeting dream, While lasting longing ling'ring stays; Oh, wise betimes 'tis to resign, And yet our souls with sadness teem, For by the side of bounteous days Long years of want are left behind." Here, too, all signature was missing; yet, must he not now complete it? Who but that mysterious beauty on the Lago Maggiore could have written these lines? But how in the world could she come to this most remote neighbourhood--and how inside this castle? He should have liked best to have awoke the steward at once to obtain information; painful impatience, which he could not subdue, had taken possession of him. He went through the suite of freshly-furnished rooms. The masons and upholsterers had just completed their task; the newly-built wing of the castle was simply and comfortably arranged; while not a sign of that haunting spectre allowed itself to be seen. He visited the guest chambers; they were all in the most perfect order. Only once Blanden started, as close by, in the night's silence, he heard a peculiar noise. In his excitement he had quite forgotten his guest; it was Doctor Kuhl, who, snoring loudly, slept the sleep of the righteous. From the dining-hall, Blanden went to the chapel, which adjoined it. The former belonged to the Ordensburg, and was still well preserved. A portion of the glass paintings in the windows were dedicated to the Holy Virgin, a portion to the deeds of the Knights of the Order. One picture portrayed the latter's battle with the Poles; the Virgin hovered above it amid light clouds. Up several steps arose a small altar; behind it a picture, which represented the elevation of Christ upon the cross. Upon the altar lay another paper, with the words: "Remember the little fisherman's church on Isola Bella!" Now there was no longer any doubt; that Italian woman had appeared here in the Baltic country, by the remotest lakes of Masuren. She had been to his castle: was it ardent, longing, unconquerable passion, that had urged her to follow him hither? She alone could know of that meeting in the little fisherman's church. The ghost had long since ceased to make an eerie impression upon Blanden; but the enchanting days and nights that he had passed on the Lago Maggiore, seemed to glow again in his soul; that intoxicating perfume of the South, that beautiful woman's picture that had appeared and vanished again so mysteriously, had bound his recollections as if with some sweet spell.