“Are you ill, Adelaide?” I cried.
“No. Good-night, dear May. Schlaf’ wohl, as they say here.”
To my unbounded astonishment, she leaned forward and gave me a gentle kiss; then, still holding my hand, asked: “Do you still say your prayers, May?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you say?”
“Oh! the same that I always used to say; they are better than any I can invent.”
“Yes. I never do say mine now. I rather think I am afraid to begin again.”
“Good-night, Adelaide,” I said, inaudibly; and she loosed my hand.
At the door I turned. She was still standing by the lamp; still her face wore the same strange, subdued look. With a heart oppressed by new uneasiness, I left her.
It must have been not till toward dawn that I fell into a sleep, heavy, but not quiet—filled with fantastic dreams, most of which vanished as soon as they had passed my mind. But one remained. To this day it is as vivid before me, as if I had actually lived through it.