He started back--he and those who were with him. “The man is mad,” they said. They left me in peace. I grow excited as I write. My hand trembles. Let me be calm. She awoke that night. It was midnight, and all was still. She opened her eyes suddenly, and looked full at me with an earnest and steadfast stare. At last a long, deep-drawn sigh broke the stillness of that lone chamber. “Back again”--she murmured, in a scarce audible voice--“among men, and to earth. O friends of the Realm of Light, must I be severed from your lofty communion!” As she spoke thus the anguish which I had felt at the grave was renewed. “You have brought me back,” said she, mournfully. “No,” I returned, sadly--“not I. It was not God’s will that you should leave this life. He did not send death to you. You were sleeping, and I brought you to this place.” “I know all,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “I heard all while my spirit was away. I know where you found me.” “I am weary,” she said, after a silence. Her eyes closed again. But this time the trance was broken. She slept with long, deep breathing, interrupted by frequent sighs. I watched her through the long night. At first fever came. Then it passed. Her sleep became calm, and she slumbered like a weary child. Early in the morning the superintendent came, followed by a dozen armed men. He entered with a frown. I met him with my hand upraised to hush him, and led him gently to the bedside. “See,” I whispered--“but for me she would have been BURIED ALIVE!” The man seemed frozen into dumbness. He stood ghastly white with horror, thick drops started from his forehead, his teeth chattered, he staggered away. He looked at me with a haunted face, such as belongs to one who thinks he has seen a spirit. “Spare me,” he faltered; “do not ruin me. God knows I have tried to do my best!” I waved him off. “Leave me. You have nothing to fear.” He turned away with his white face, and departed in silence with his men. After a long sleep Edith waked again. She said nothing. I did not wish her to speak. She lay awake, yet with closed eyes, thinking such thoughts as belong to one, and to one alone, who had known what she had known. I did not speak to her, for she was to me a holy being, not to be addressed lightly. Yet she did not refuse nourishment, and grew stronger, until at last I was able to have her moved to Quebec. There I obtained proper accommodations for her and good nurses. I have told you what she was before this. Subsequently there came a change. The nurses and the doctors called it a stupor.