There was something so agitated, and even terrified, in her manner, that I was absolutely startled.  I urged her to disclose whatever preyed upon her mind.

“You can’t sympathise with me—­you can’t help me—­you can scarcely compassionate me in my misery!  Oh, dearest Richard!  Some evil influence has been gaining upon my heart, dulling and destroying my convictions, killing all my holy affections, and—­and absolutely transforming me.  I look inward upon myself with amazement, with terror—­with—­oh, God!—­with actual despair!”

Saying this, she threw herself on her knees, and wept an agonised flood of tears, with her head reposing in my lap.

Poor little thing, my heart bled for her!  But what could I do or say?

All I could suggest was what I really thought, that she was unwell—­hysterical—­and needed to take better care of her precious self; that her change of feeling was fancied, not real; and that a few days would restore her to her old health and former spirits and serenity.

“And sometimes,” she resumed, after I had ended a consolatory discussion, which it was but too manifest had fallen unprofitably upon her ear, “such dreadful, impious thoughts come into my mind, whether I choose it or not; they come, and stay, and return, strive as I may; and I can’t pray against them.  They are forced upon me with the strength of an independent will; and oh!—­horrible—­frightful—­they blaspheme the character of God himself.  They upbraid the Almighty upon his throne, and I can’t pray against them; there is something in me now that resists prayer.”

There was such a real and fearful anguish in the agitation of my gentle companion, that it shook my very soul within me, even while I was affecting to make light of her confessions.  I had never before witnessed a struggle at all like this, and I was awe-struck at the spectacle.

At length she became comparatively calm.  I did gradually succeed, though very imperfectly, in reassuring her.  She strove hard against her depression, and recovered a little of her wonted cheerfulness.

After a while, however, the cloud returned.  She grew sad and earnest, though no longer excited; and entreated, or rather implored, of me to grant her one special favour, and this was, to avoid the society of our lodger.

“I never,” she said, “could understand till now the instinctive dread with which poor Margaret, in Faust, shrinks from the hateful presence of Mephistopheles.  I now feel it in myself.  The dislike and suspicion I first felt for that man—­Smith, or whatever else he may call himself—­has grown into literal detestation and terror.  I hate him—­I am afraid of him—­I never knew what anguish of mind was until he entered our doors; and would to God—­would to God he were gone.”

I reasoned with her—­kissed her—­laughed at her; but could not dissipate, in the least degree, the intense and preternatural horror with which she had grown to regard the poor philosophic invalid, who was probably, at that moment, poring over some metaphysical book in his solitary bedchamber.