elbow-chair before the fire, and dream away
the time.

A circumstance which had happened some
months before, and of which I had not lately
been thinking, coming suddenly into my head
without any apparent cause, led me to meditate
upon the manner in which ideas are
connected in our minds. I strove to trace
this idea back, from link to link. But so
secret and rapid are the operations of the
mind, that I could in no way trace the
recollection to its origin.

Yet remembering that the most trivial
circumstances will sometimes give rise to a
train of thought, leading us by circuitous ways
—though with the swiftness of light—to ideas
which have no apparent relation to those from
which we started, I fancied that some object
near me, some noise, either of the wind or the
rain that was beginning to beat again upon
the window, or of voices which I might have
involuntarily noted—or that the time and
situation in which I found myself, or even
the weather—might be in some way connected
with this reminiscence; and taking several of
these things in succession, I amused myself
by diverging from each by every chain of
association which my fancy could suggest, in
the hope that I should thus discover in what
way this circumstance had been brought into
my mind.

"But who," thought I, "shall trace the
intricacies of this subject? For, as a flower
may remind me of Plato, though it may be
impossible to discover by what way my mind
has travelled from one to the other; so, a
sensation born of the time, or place, or
circumstances, in which I find myself, may,
through many secret gradations, re-awaken a
sensation belonging to some past time, and
thus bring before me a scene with which that
sensation is allied."

I had been long absorbed in these solitary
reveries, when I became aware of the fact
that I had been unconsciously uttering some
of my reasonings aloud. The sound of my
own voice startled me, as if it had come from
another part of the room. The solitude and
stillness, to me, awakening from my dreaming
mood, impressed me with a strange, uneasy
feeling. It was quite dark. I could not
distinguish my piano, my easels, or my paintings
on the wall; until the log upon the fire,
suddenly bubbling and sending out smoke,
caught in a jet of flame, lighted the room
a moment, and went out. After that, I sat
with my face resting on my hands, looking
down into the fire, and wondering at the
stillness in the house. I listened for some
minutes, and could hear no one speaking or
moving in any of the rooms, or any footsteps
on the stairs. Once I heard laughter at a
distance, where a door had been opened; but
the door was shut again instantly, and I heard
it no longer. I had but lately recovered from.
an illness, and my physical weakness made me
feel more strongly the loneliness of my situation.
Strange notions, such as at other times
I should have laughed away, held my mind
with the power of realities. I fancied that I
heard a stealthy footstep creeping up near
me; and, next, that some one was standing
close behind my chair. So impressed was I
with the latter fancy, that at last I sprang
upon my feet; and, turning round, stretched
out my hand to assure myself that I was
mistaken. Nor was it until I had struck the
burning logs with the tongs, and made a flame
which lighted the room, that I could entirely
banish these notions. Wondering that I could
be so moved by such imaginations, and led by my
pride to think of moments when I had found
myself not wanting in courage in the presence
of real danger, I sat down again, and watched
the fire—playing on the wood, and gradually
diminishing, until only one little flame was left
hovering on the tip of a wreath of smoke—
going out and coming in again, until it was
finally extinguished, and only thin clouds of
smoke and steam were left to trail up the
wide chimney. I stirred the logs again until
they were burnt through, and watched them
until, covered with an ash, the red glow sank
into the crevices made by the fire. Then the
current of my thoughts seemed to lose itself
—absorbed into vacancy, like a rivulet in the
sands—and I sat idly looking at the dark
hearth.

It was just at this moment that I was
aroused by a tapping at the door. I had
fancied that I heard it once before; but,
having previously heard no footsteps mounting
the stairs, I had concluded that I was
mistaken. I felt for my lamp upon the table,
and hastened to light it before answering the
summons. While I was vainly endeavouring
to blow the last spark into a flame, the
tapping was repeated more loudly, and I
proceeded to open the door in the dark.

"Who's there?" I exclaimed, seeing no
one on the dark landing.

"It is I," said a voice. "You will scarcely
have expected me."

"M. Falck!" I said; for I recognised the
voice. "This is very remarkable."

The unexpected visit of this man, connected
as he was with the subject of my previous
reveries, reminded me of stories of people who
have supposed themselves visited by persons
they have known; and have even held long
conversations with the objects of their
imagination. I had always disliked him. Many
months before, I had parted from him in
anger, and had not seen him since. He had
never visited me at home at any period; and
I could not imagine his object in coming to
me now.

"You have something to say to me,
M. Falck?" I asked.

"Let us have a light," said he, "and I will
explain."

Bidding him come in and shut the door, I
struck a light, and set my lamp upon the
table. My visitor flung himself upon a chair,