One evening, after a bright day of swift and enjoyable sailing over a smooth and sunlit sea, I retired to rest in my cabin, feeling almost happy. My mind was perfectly tranquil,--my trust in my friend Lucio was again re-established,--and I may add, so was my old arrogant and confident trust in myself. My access to fortune had not, so far, brought me either much joy or distinction,--but it was not too late for me yet to pluck the golden apples of Hesperides. The various troubles I had endured, though of such recent occurrence, began to assume a blurred indistinctness in my mind, as of things long past and done with,--I considered the strength of my financial position again with satisfaction, to the extent of contemplating a second marriage--and that marriage with--Mavis Clare! No other woman should be my wife, I mentally swore,--she, and she only should be mine! I foresaw no difficulties in the way,--and full of pleasant dreams and self-delusions I settled myself in my berth, and dropped easily off to sleep. About midnight I awoke, vaguely terrified, to see the cabin full of a strong red light and fierce glare. My first dazed impression was that the yacht was on fire,--the next instant I became paralysed and dumb with horror. Sibyl stood before me! ... Sibyl, a wild, strange, tortured writhing figure, half nude, waving beckoning arms, and making desperate gestures,--her face was as I had seen it last in death, livid and hideous, ... her eyes blazed mingled menace, despair, and warning upon me! Round her a living wreath of flame coiled upwards like a twisted snake, ... her lips moved as though she strove to speak, but no sound came from them,----and while I yet looked at her, she vanished! I must have lost consciousness then,--for when I awoke it was broad day. But this ghastly visitation was only the first of many such,--and at last, _every night_ I saw her thus, sheeted in flame, till I grew well-nigh mad with fear and misery. My torment was indescribable,--yet I said nothing to Lucio, who watched me, as I imagined, narrowly,--I took sleeping-draughts in the hope to procure unbroken rest, but in vain,--always I woke at one particular moment, and always I had to face this fiery phantom of my dead wife, with despair in her eyes and an unuttered warning on her lips. This was not all. One day in the full sunlight of a quiet afternoon, I entered the saloon of the yacht alone, and started back amazed to see my old friend John Carrington seated at the table, pen in hand, casting up accounts. He bent over his papers closely,--his face was furrowed and very pale,--but so life-like was he, so seemingly substantial that I called him by name, whereat he looked up,--smiled drearily, and was gone! Trembling in every limb I realized that here was another spectral terror added to the burden of my days; and sitting down, I tried to rally my scattered forces and reason out what was best to be done. There