I was there, in Annie's room—that is, the only part of me that is worth anything; my body remained here, in my own room, I suppose.'
I saw at once that the old spell was on her again, and, as I made it a point to fall in with her humor on such occasions, I said:
'Well, what did you see there?'
'I saw an open piano, and books and music scattered around. There were a great many flowers in the room. A bright fire was in the grate, and Pompey—the house dog—was stretched on a rug before it. A large easy-chair, covered with blue damask, stood near the fireplace. Henry Ackermann was seated in it. Annie was kneeling before him. He talked to her while he stroked her hair. I heard every word that he said.'
Here she paused. I was getting quite excited with her narrative, but I spoke as calmly as I could:
'You have only fancied these things, Miriam. You are ill.'
'The material part of my nature may be ill. I do not know. But the immaterial is sound and healthy. It sometimes leaves its grosser companion, and makes discoveries for itself. This is not the first time it has happened, as you well know. I have been particular in my description, in order that I might convince you that I have actually been there. You know that the description I have given is entirely different from the appearance of Annie's room in former times. I have never heard that she had newly furnished it. Write to her, and ask her to describe her room to you, and you will find that I have seen all that I have told you.'
Finding her so calm, and so willing to reason on what she had seen, I ventured to ask:
'And what did Ackermann say to her?'
'Only a very little thing,' said she, with bitter emphasis. 'That he loved her—and admired me; she stirred the depths of his heart—I excited his intellect; she was his darling—I, his sphinx.'