.

.

As you sat here, a moment ago, reading to me, I saw her reflected for a moment in the mirror behind you, passing into the room beyond.

Her hair is perfectly white, Celia--or," he said vaguely to himself, "was it something she wore ?--like the bandeaux of the Sisters of Charity----" The lighted candle fell from Celia's nerveless fingers and rolled over and over across the floor, trailing a smoking wick.

Berkley's hand steadied her trembling arm.
"Why are you frightened ?" he asked calmly.
"There is nothing dead about what I saw." "I c-can't he'p myse'f," stammered Celia; "you say such frightful things to me--you tell me that they happen in my own house--in _her_ own room--How can I be calm?
How can I believe such things of--of Constance Berkley--of yo' daid mother----" "I don't know," he said dully.
The star-light sparkled on the silver candle-stick where it lay on the floor in a little pool of wax.