whose I cannot rightly determine. In the shadow of a great dwelling
I catch the gleam of white garments; then the figure of a woman
confronts me in the road--my murdered wife! There is death in the
face; there are marks upon the throat. The eyes are fixed on mine
with an infinite gravity which is not reproach, nor hate, nor menace,
nor anything less terrible than recognition. Before this awful
apparition I retreat in terror--a terror that is upon me as I write.
I can no longer rightly shape the words. See! they -

Now I am calm, but truly there is no more to tell: the incident ends
where it began--in darkness and in doubt.

Yes, I am again in control of myself: "the captain of my soul." But
that is not respite; it is another stage and phase of expiation. My
penance, constant in degree, is mutable in kind: one of its variants
is tranquillity. After all, it is only a life-sentence. "To Hell
for life"--that is a foolish penalty: the culprit chooses the
duration of his punishment. To-day my term expires.

To each and all, the peace that was not mine.

III--STATEMENT OF THE LATE JULIA HETMAN, THROUGH THE MEDIUM BAYROLLES

I had retired early and fallen almost immediately into a peaceful
sleep, from which I awoke with that indefinable sense of peril which
is, I think, a common experience in that other, earlier life. Of its
unmeaning character, too, I was entirely persuaded, yet that did not
banish it. My husband, Joel Hetman, was away from home; the servants
slept in another part of the house. But these were familiar
conditions; they had never before distressed me. Nevertheless, the