“It is so like the night you came to us,” I said.

She sighed; smiling.

She rose, and each with her arm about the other’s waist, we walked out upon the pavement.

In silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape opened before us.

“And so you were thinking of the night I came here?” she almost whispered.

“Are you glad I came?”

“Delighted, dear Carmilla,” I answered.

“And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room,” she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder.  “How romantic you are, Carmilla,” I said.  “Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance.”

She kissed me silently.

“I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on.”

“I have been in love with no one, and never shall,” she whispered, “unless it should be with you.”

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!

Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.

Her soft cheek was glowing against mine.  “Darling, darling,” she murmured, “I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so.”

I started from her.

She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had flown, and a face colorless and apathetic.

“Is there a chill in the air, dear?” she said drowsily.  “I almost shiver; have I been dreaming?  Let us come in.  Come; come; come in.”

“You look ill, Carmilla; a little faint.  You certainly must take some wine,” I said.

“Yes.  I will.  I’m better now.  I shall be quite well in a few minutes.  Yes, do give me a little wine,” answered Carmilla, as we approached the door.

“Let us look again for a moment; it is the last time, perhaps, I shall see the moonlight with you.”

“How do you feel now, dear Carmilla?  Are you really better?” I asked.

I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us.

“Papa would be grieved beyond measure,” I added, “if he thought you were ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know.  We have a very skilful doctor near us, the physician who was with papa today.”

“I’m sure he is.  I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am quite well again.  There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weakness.

“People say I am languid; I am incapable of exertion; I can scarcely walk as far as a child of three years old:  and every now and then the little strength I have falters, and I become as you have just seen me.  But after all I am very easily set up again; in a moment I am perfectly myself.  See how I have recovered.”