by some one whose arm was in mine, as if softly swept along, not
forcibly, but with an utter consent of all my faculties to do I knew not
what, for love of I knew not whom. For love,--that was how it
seemed,--not by force, as when I went before. But my steps took the same
course: I went through the dim passages in an exaltation indescribable,
and opened the door of my father's room.

He was seated there at his table as usual, the light of the lamp falling
on his white hair; he looked up with some surprise at the sound of the
opening door. "Phil," he said, and with a look of wondering apprehension
on his face, watched my approach. I went straight up to him and put my
hand on his shoulder. "Phil, what is the matter? What do you want with
me? What is it?" he said.

"Father, I can't tell you. I come not of myself. There must be something
in it, though I don't know what it is. This is the second time I have
been brought to you here."

"Are you going--?" He stopped himself. The exclamation had been begun
with an angry intention. He stopped, looking at me with a scared look, as
if perhaps it might be true.

"Do you mean mad? I don't think so. I have no delusions that I know of.
Father, think--do you know any reason why I am brought here? for some
cause there must be."

I stood with my hand upon the back of his chair. His table was covered
with papers, among which were several letters with the broad black border
which I had before observed. I noticed this now in my excitement without
any distinct association of thoughts, for that I was not capable of; but