“The next evening, and for many evenings afterward, that folly went on, I always having ‘the last word.’  During the whole period I was deliriously happy, but with the perversity of my nature I persevered in my resolution not to see her.  Then, as I should have expected, I got no further answers.  ‘She is disgusted,’ I said to myself, ’with what she thinks my timidity in making no more definite advances’; and I resolved to seek her and make her acquaintance and—­what?  I did not know, nor do I now know, what might have come of it.  I know only that I passed days and days trying to meet her, and all in vain; she was invisible as well as inaudible.  I haunted the streets where we had met, but she did not come.  From my window I watched the garden in front of her house, but she passed neither in nor out.  I fell into the deepest dejection, believing that she had gone away, yet took no steps to resolve my doubt by inquiry of my landlady, to whom, indeed, I had taken an unconquerable aversion from her having once spoken of the girl with less of reverence than I thought befitting.

“There came a fateful night.  Worn out with emotion, irresolution and despondency, I had retired early and fallen into such sleep as was still possible to me.  In the middle of the night something—­some malign power bent upon the wrecking of my peace forever—­caused me to open my eyes and sit up, wide awake and listening intently for I knew not what.  Then I thought I heard a faint tapping on the wall—­the mere ghost of the familiar signal.  In a few moments it was repeated:  one, two, three—­no louder than before, but addressing a sense alert and strained to receive it.  I was about to reply when the Adversary of Peace again intervened in my affairs with a rascally suggestion of retaliation.  She had long and cruelly ignored me; now I would ignore her.  Incredible fatuity—­may God forgive it!  All the rest of the night I lay awake, fortifying my obstinacy with shameless justifications and—­listening.

“Late the next morning, as I was leaving the house, I met my landlady, entering.

“‘Good morning, Mr. Dampier,’ she said.  ‘Have you heard the news?’

“I replied in words that I had heard no news; in manner, that I did not care to hear any.  The manner escaped her observation.

“‘About the sick young lady next door,’ she babbled on.  ’What! you did not know?  Why, she has been ill for weeks.  And now—­’

“I almost sprang upon her.  ‘And now,’ I cried, ‘now what?’

“‘She is dead.’

“That is not the whole story.  In the middle of the night, as I learned later, the patient, awakening from a long stupor after a week of delirium, had asked—­it was her last utterance—­that her bed be moved to the opposite side of the room.  Those in attendance had thought the request a vagary of her delirium, but had complied.  And there the poor passing soul had exerted its failing will to restore a broken connection—­a golden thread of sentiment between its innocence and a monstrous baseness owning a blind, brutal allegiance to the Law of Self.