He turned the handle noiselessly, and entered, carefully closing the door behind him.
In the large and lofty apartment, where he now found himself, a dim and shaded night-lamp was burning, thick, dark curtains shaded the windows, a large rug covered the center of the floor, a low, white cottage-bed stood in the furthest corner, draped in neat and spotless white.
Then the midnight explorer started, and with difficulty repressed the cry that rose to his lips.
For the soft, white counterpane thrown over the bed, outlined the curves of an exquisite, girlish form.
On the white, ruffled pillow nestled a sleeping face as lovely as a budding rose.
The round, white arms were thrown carelessly up above her head, the wealth of curling, golden hair, strayed in rich confusion over the pillow; the golden-brown lashes lay softly on the rosy, dimpled cheeks; the lips were smiling as if some happy dream stirred the white breast that rose and fell so softly over the innocent heart.
"Ghost or human?" Bertram Chesleigh asked himself, as he gazed in astonishment and ecstacy at the beautiful, unconscious sleeper.
He came nearer with noiseless footsteps and bated breath to the bedside. He bent so near that he could hear the soft, sweet breath that fluttered over the parted lips.
"It is she," he said to himself, with mingled rapture and amaze.