My Library

whom I subsequently remember to have observed was a thin, strange-looking, scrawny, shrivelled little old man, with the queerest possible little sharp grey eyes. He looked half frozen, and acted so, for he advanced toward some shelves and proceeded very leisurely to warm his hands over my laboratory furnace, between the door and wall. The lady appeared no more surprised than myself at the inexplicable presence of this singular intruder. “ ‘I am not so sure of that,’ I replied, in answer to the words uttered by the strange old man—‘I am not so sure that there are such beings in existence.’ “ ‘Then you’re a greater fool than I took you for! Good evening!’ And he moved slightly toward the door, against which my chair firmly stood. “ ‘Don’t go yet, for I want you to explain,’ said the lady. ‘Don’t you think he ought to?’ turning to me with a very peculiar earnestness expressed in her countenance, especially in her eyes—very peculiar eyes at all times, but lit up in the most extraordinary manner at that moment. ‘I think he ought to prove his statement, and not leave us in this state of uncertainty. It is positively cruel!’ And, as she spoke, her eye met mine, and fastened it as if the encountering glances were riveted together. “There must be some magic in the soul that is only flashed forth on very rare occasions, else