"You were well when I left you; there must be some reason for this change."
"No reason, no reason," she answered, sighing.
"If there is any cause for your illness or for this change, if your heart is oppressed with any trouble or misgiving, if you are not perfectly happy in your mind—why will you not take me into your confidence? Is it not my privilege to share your sorrows? If you are sad and will not tell me the cause of your sadness, must I not fear that you do not think I love you well enough to deserve your confidence?"
"Do I distrust your love? I do not. I am happy in your love."
"If you know how well I love you you must be happy; for no one was ever loved more truly than you."
"Do not talk so, Arthur. Let me feel your love, not hear it."
"Is there anything in the past that grieves you to remember, Geraldine?"
"Hush!" she raised her hand solemnly. "I have buried the past. It will grieve me no more."
"But its ghost may walk," I said, hoping to make myself more intelligible by adopting her tone. "Tell me how I may find it, that I may bid it depart and leave you in peace."
"Should it come, it will not go for you," she said, shaking her head. "Ghosts are deaf, and heed no prayers. They are spirits and have no fears. The air is full of them sometimes. I hear their voices, and when the room is dark I see their shapes. They are more white than that face," pointing to her reflection; "and they have steady un-winking eyes and long shadowy hands. Do you never see them? They often stand at the foot of the bed and watch us."