It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me.  “See here, Doc,” he began at once, “do you believe in coincidences?” I informed him that his question was not altogether easy to understand.  “Wait a moment,” he said, “while I explain.  For at least two years prior to my recent return from California the name ‘Cleopatra’ has not entered my mind.  You were the first to mention it to me, and from you I learned that Miss Darrow was to have charge of the ’Antony and Cleopatra’ night.  That is all natural enough.  But why should I, on every morning since you first mentioned the subject to me, awake with Antony’s words upon my lips?  Why should every book or paper I pick up contain some reference to Cleopatra?  Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively spookish.  I am getting to believe that I shall be confronted either by Cleopatra’s name, or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book.  It’s getting to be decidedly interesting.”

“I have had,” I replied, “similar, though less remarkable, experiences.  It is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing, say, this morning for the first time in one’s life, and then to find, in the course of the day’s reading, three or four independent references to the same thing.  Suppose we step into the library, and pick out a few books haphazard, just to see if we chance upon any reference to Cleopatra.”

To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the Morning Herald across the table to him, saying:  “One thing’s as good as another; try that.”  He started a little, but did not touch the paper.  “You will have to find something harder than that,” he said, pointing to the outspread paper.

I followed the direction of his finger, and read: 

   “Boston Theatre.  Special engagement of Miss Fanny Davenport. 
    For one week.  Beginning Monday, the 12th of December, Sardou’s
    ‘Cleopatra.’”

I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing.  The next thing I handed him was a copy of Godey’s Magazine, several years old.  He opened it carelessly, and in a moment read the following line:  “I am dying, sweetheart, dying.”  “Doesn’t that sound familiar?  It reminds me at once of the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning,—­’I am dying, Egypt, dying.’  There is no doubt that Higginson’s poem suggested this one.  Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed here,” he said, and read the following: 

Love’s Twilight

     I am dreaming, loved one, dreaming
     Of the sweet and beauteous past
     When the world was as its seeming,
     Ere the fatal shaft was cast.

     I am sobbing, sad-eyed, sobbing,
     At the darkly sullen west,
     Of the smile of ignorance robbing
     The pale face against the breast.

     I am smiling, tear-stained, smiling,
     As the sun glints on the crest
     Of the troubled wave, beguiling
     Shipwrecked Hope to its long rest.