She was there--with David in his room--as surely as the woman had been with him in the coach.
He drew a deep breath and sat back on the edge of his bed.

He heard Father Roland getting into his creaky bed in the adjoining room.

Then came the Missioner's voice.
"Good-night, David." "Good-night, Father." For a space after that he sat staring blankly at the log of his room.
Then he leaned over again and held the photograph a second time in the lampglow.

The first strange spell of the picture was broken, and he looked at it more coolly, more critically, a little disgusted with himself for having allowed his imagination to play a trick on him.

He turned it over in his hands, and on the back of the cardboard mount he saw there had been writing.