I began to wonder to myself if Maud could be aware of the strong
impression she had made upon me. I even dared to hope, though humbly,
very humbly, she might not _quite_ have forgotten _me_; that there was
still a spare corner in her memory--I had nearly said _heart_--left
vacant in which I might crave a home. Did she, perhaps--here an electric shock ran through me at the very
thought--did she feel for me _exactly_ in the same way as I felt for
her? Oh, rapture! and I tried to persuade myself that she did, for the
thought comforted me. "Ah, Maud, Maud," I muttered to myself, in the midst of my reverie. At that moment I heard the door handle move. "Confound that box-keeper," muttered I. "What can he want, coming to
disturb my meditation?" The door opened, and I turned my head to see who it was. Gentlemen, will
you believe it? It was Maud, again dressed exactly the same as before. I
started, and my blood ran cold, my hair stood on end, my teeth
chattered, and my knees knocked together. I essayed to speak, but my
tongue refused to give utterance to what I wished to say. I was then in
the presence, nay close to, a supernatural essence bearing the
lineaments of Maud, whose body I knew for certain to be at her country
seat, nearly a hundred miles away. The figure gave me a friendly look of recognition, and seated itself. I
fancied it offered me its hand, but I was too dumbfounded to accept it,
and remained stupefied. At length this excessive feeling of terror began
to wear off, and I ventured to say, in a low tone, broken with emotion,
"Maud, is it really you? Speak." "William," said a voice proceeding from the lips of the figure, but
which sounded as if it came from a long way off, "William!" And there was the deepest pathos in the tone. It was the first time I
had been called thus by Maud. When she was in the body she always called
me Mr. Blackdeed. I waited for some moments to hear if the voice would
say more. After a long pause it spoke again, and said, "You called me. Wherefore?" "Called you, Maud!" said I. "I called you not." "The concentration of your thoughts has had the power to command my
spirit from afar," said the figure. "Is it so?" said I. "And can you not battle against such commands?" The figure replied not, save by a look, which seemed to say, "When you
command, no." I understood the look, and felt flattered by its meaning, but knew not
how to respond, so I was silent for some moments. At length I said, "Maud--if I may call you Maud--tell me, do you suffer
much when withdrawn from the body?" "Less out of it than in it," was the reply. "How so?" I asked. "You know how I stand with my family," she said. "True, true," I observed; "and this must cause you great pain. However,
I hope in time----"

"Never, never," she replied with a sigh. "Oh, why not? Do you not wish to live happily with them?" "Oh, how willingly!" "Then let me see if I cannot make matters a little smooth for you. Perhaps----"

She shook her head doubtfully, and said, "I feel as if I did not belong
to them nor they to me; in fact, I feel as if I never belonged to
anybody, nor ever should." "And never should!" exclaimed I. "Why, you do not mean to say
that--that--you never intend to marry?" "I fear I should make but an indifferent wife." "Why so? I am sure you possess qualities that many married ladies might
envy. Of course, you would require a husband who understood you and was
able to appreciate your virtues." "You flatter me," she said. "Nevertheless, you will see that I shall
never marry. Mark my words. I was not born for it. Do you know," she
said, lowering her voice, and speaking in a solemn tone, "that of late I
have had a strange presentiment that my end is not far off." "Now, really, Maud," said I, "pray do not talk like that, for I
sincerely hope that nothing more serious than a little temporary
indisposition has given rise to such a presentiment." "My health of late has been, if anything, better than usual. I do not
think this presentiment can be reasonably accounted for in that way. At
other times when I have felt at all poorly such a thought has never
occurred to me." I merely shook my head and said that I hoped she would not encourage
these presentiments. "William," she said, "remember my words; I shall not live till the year
is out." I did not know what to answer, and gazed upon her in astonishment for
some minutes, when suddenly her face grew agonised, and she manifested
symptoms of impatience. "What is it, Maud?" I asked. "What ails you?" She seemed to have
difficulty in answering, but I fancied that I understood the words, "I
am drawn to the body; let me go." And rising suddenly from her chair and gasping, she made for the door,
but disappeared from my sight before she had time to reach it. I remained stupefied at the figure's sudden disappearance, as well as at
the whole occurrence of the evening. I knew not what to think. Had I
been dreaming? No. This was not the first time, either, that I had seen
her. I had been holding converse with no less a being than Maud's ghost;
her own pure and beautiful spirit, drawn by my art from the body while
yet breath remained. A horrid thought struck me. Perhaps I had detained the spirit too long
away from the body. Perhaps there was no one in the house to wake her
out of her trance. I reproached myself for not foreseeing the mischief
that I might do, and returned home from the theatre that evening with
Maud more than ever in my thoughts. Next morning when I awoke, whether from the excitement of the previous
evening or from a cold caught by walking home in the rain, or both
combined, perhaps, I found myself in a high fever. I was compelled to
remain in bed, though I was averse to sending for the doctor until some
days later, when I found the fever grew rapidly worse. A doctor was sent for--not my friend Merrivale, as I knew not where he
lived--and he attributed my illness to over-study and want of proper
exercise. I merely mention my illness to tell you a dream which occurred
to me during a portion of it. I thought that I was transported to realms
of enchantment, and that whilst the most beautiful scenery imaginable
lay before me, I heard in the distance soft strains of music and
singing, which gradually drew nearer and nearer to me. The atmosphere seemed to fill with a delicious perfume, and looking
upwards, I descried a troop of angels, bearing one with them who seemed
lately of this earth. The angels gradually descended, and left the
figure they carried with them at my feet, whilst they flew upward. I
instantly recognised in the figure before me the features of Maud. She
was dressed in a long robe of white, and, with an expression in her
countenance too beautiful and too unearthly to describe, she spoke these
words:

"Farewell, William; we meet again," and vanished. I awoke, and the dream remained impressed upon my mind for a long time
afterwards.