Before lunch was concluded, Mr. Burton fell into a reverie, which he ended by saying,
“We must have the assistance of Lenore, if she can give us any.”
I felt reluctant to see the child placed again in that unnatural trance; but other considerations were even weightier than our fears for the shock to her nervous system; and after she had chatted a while with us, and had sung for me, Mr. Burton subjected her to the experiment. It had been so long since he had exercised his power over her, that it required a greater effort than on the former occasion which I witnessed, to place her in the desired condition. He, however, finally succeeded perfectly. The dead-letter was placed in her hands, when we observed her shrink as if a serpent had glided over her lap; but she did not throw it down, as she seemed moved to do.
“What do you see, Lenore?”
“It is too dark to see. A lamp shines across the walk, and I see a man dropping the letter in the box. He is muffled up so that I can not tell about his face; he steals up and goes off again very quickly.”
“Follow him, Lenore.”
“It is too dark, father. I am lost in the streets. Oh! now I have overtaken him again; he walks so fast—he is short and thick—he looks as if he were afraid of something. He will not pass the police-officer, but crosses the street, and keeps in the shadow. Now we are at the ferry—it is the Fulton Ferry—I know it well. Oh, dear! the water rises and the wind blows—it is getting morning, but it rains so—and the water is so wild I can not make my way on to the boat.”
“Don’t be discouraged, my child. I would give much to have you follow him across the river, and tell me at what house he stops.”
“The wind blows so,” continued Lenore, pitifully; “all is dark and uncertain. I have missed him—I do not know him from others.”
“Try again, my darling. Look well at the letter.”