The letters were short,--they were dated; the dates exactly
thirty-five years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his
mistress, or a husband to some young wife. Not only the terms of
expression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage, indicated the
writer to have been a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were
those of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself was
forcible. In the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough,
wild love; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints at some
secret not of love,--some secret that seemed of crime. "We ought to
love each other," was one of the sentences I remember, "for how every
one else would execrate us if all was known." Again: "Don't let any
one be in the same room with you at night,--you talk in your sleep."
And again: "What's done can't be undone; and I tell you there's
nothing against us unless the dead could come to life." Here there was
underlined in a better handwriting (a female's), "They do!" At the end
of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these
words: "Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as--"

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might
unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state
to cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bring
forth. I roused myself; laid the letters on the table; stirred up the
fire, which was still bright and cheering; and opened my volume of
Macaulay. I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I then
threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire
to his own room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open
the door between the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burning
on the table by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and