for help filled the space about him; yes, moans--they were cries
no longer--and they were growing fainter--they were
fading--sinking--dying--and he was shrinking--




X.


Harold opened his eyes. The night had gone; the sun was struggling
through the heavy curtains; the lamps and the fire had gone out, and
the room was cold. He was faint and exhausted. His forehead was damp
with horror, and his hands were shaking. That terrible struggle in
which intellect and its attainments had been wrenched apart, in which
the spirit and its memories had been torn asunder! He closed his eyes
for a moment in obedience to his exhausted vitality. Then he rose
slowly to his feet, went into his bedroom, and looked into the glass.
Was it Harold Dartmouth or the dead poet who was reflected there? He
went back, picked up the locket, and returned to the glass. He looked
at the picture, then at his own face, and again at the picture. They
were identical; there was not a line or curve or tint of difference.
He returned to his chair and rested his head on his hand. Was he this
man re-born? Did the dead come back and live again? Was it a dream, or
had he actually lived over a chapter from a past existence? He was a
practical man-of-the-world, not a vague dreamer--but all nature was
a mystery; this would be no stranger than the general mystery of life
itself. And he was not only this man reproduced in every line
and feature; he had his nature as well. His grandmother had never
mentioned her husband's name, but the Dartmouths had been less