I was her constant attendant during her sickness. She could scarcely bear me out of her sight. She had never spoken to me of Ackermann since the interview in Annie's room. Now she seemed to take delight in talking about him, and I was amazed at the intense hatred with which she regarded him. She was gentle and patient under her sufferings, and tender and loving at all times, except when speaking of him. Then all the bad passions of her nature were aroused. It was in vain that I represented to her that at such a time she should endeavor to be at peace with all the world, and forgive as she hoped to be forgiven.

'If I have sinned against my God, as Henry Ackermann has sinned against me, I neither expect or wish to be forgiven,'—was the only reply she would make to such arguments. She had not the slightest feeling of ill will against Annie; she spoke of her as a misguided, loving girl; but often repeated the assertion that Ackermann and Annie would never be married.

The physicians were inclined to think that Miriam would recover from this attack, but she knew, she said, that she must die, and she exacted a promise from me that I would watch over her body until it was consigned to the grave, imploring me not to let indifferent people be with her after death. I readily gave the promise, little knowing what a fearful obligation I was taking upon myself.

One morning I left Miriam's bedside, and walked through the village in order to get some exercise, and breathe the fresh air. I remember the day well. It was in the latter part of May—a warm, sweet, sunny day, with enough of chilliness in the air to give a zest to walking. I was surprised at the ripeness and luxuriance of the foliage, so early for a New England spring; but I was still more surprised at the aspect of our usually silent village. The streets were full of men hurrying to and fro, and groups of men, and women, too, stood at some of the corners. To my utter amazement I learned that Annie had disappeared mysteriously the night before. She had left home alone early in the evening, saying she was going to the river, and had not returned. Search was made for her during the night in all the houses of the village; that morning the river had been dragged; but not the slightest trace of Annie was anywhere to be found. Of course everybody was in a state of intense excitement. Ackermann was represented to me as almost distracted with grief, but he had been active in conducting the search for her.

I thought it best to tell this to Miriam as soon as I returned. It produced a strange effect upon her. It gave her a most intense desire for life.

'I do not desire life for myself,' said she to me, the next day, 'nor for any happiness it could confer upon me, for it has no gift that I value; but I wish to live that I may show Ackermann to the world, as he is, false, and cruel, and revengeful. I feel that I would have the power to do it, had I but health and strength; but what can a dead body do? Can the soul return to it again? Where does the soul go?'

I made no reply to this. I had gone over this ground very often with Miriam. It was not strange that one who had had such remarkable mental experiences should be a believer in spiritual agencies. She was also a firm believer in all the doctrines of the Bible, but she always maintained that this sacred book nowhere taught that the soul, on its release from the body, went directly to heaven. She argued that it was impossible for it to go there immediately. Then where did it go? These ideas disposed her to a mystical kind of reading, with which I did not sympathize, and in which I never indulged.

I stood at the window some time, looking out, but seeing nothing, for I was thinking how strange it was that two girls so entirely opposite as Miriam and Annie should love the same man, and he so different from both. I was aroused by Miriam's voice hurriedly calling me. I hastened to her side. Never shall I forget her eyes as she fixed them upon me. The pupils were dilated, and intensely black, while they shone so brilliantly that it seemed as if a fire were burning within them. She spoke eagerly:

'Promise me once more, Hester, that you will not leave my body, after the soul has left it, until it is laid in the grave, and that you will not let idle curiosity come and gaze at it.'

I readily gave her this promise, thinking it was very little to do for a dying friend. The unnatural expression faded from her eyes. She seemed entirely satisfied.