whether Victoria, or Eugenie, would do as much by him, if she happened to pass him when he was asleep.  And have we ever forgotten that the fresh cheek of the young John Milton tingled under the lips of some high-born Italian beauty, who, I believe, did not think to leave her card by the side of the slumbering youth, but has bequeathed the memory of her pretty deed to all coming time?  The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but its echo lasts a deal longer.

There is one disadvantage which the man of philosophical habits of mind suffers, as compared with the man of action.  While he is taking an enlarged and rational view of the matter before him, he lets his chance slip through his fingers.  Iris woke up, of her own accord, before I had made up my mind what I was going to do about it.

When I remember how charmingly she looked, I don’t blame myself at all for being tempted; but if I had been fool enough to yield to the impulse, I should certainly have been ashamed to tell of it.  She did not know what to make of it, finding herself there alone, in such guise, and me staring at her.  She looked down at her white robe and bare feet, and colored,—­then at the goblet she held in her hand, then at the taper; and at last her thoughts seemed to clear up.

I know it all,—­she said.—­He is going to die, and I must go and sit by him.  Nobody will care for him as I shall, and I have nobody else to care for.

I assured her that nothing was needed for him that night but rest, and persuaded her that the excitement of her presence could only do harm.  Let him sleep, and he would very probably awake better in the morning.  There was nothing to be said, for I spoke with authority; and the young girl glided away with noiseless step and sought her own chamber.

The tremor passed away from my limbs, and the blood began to burn in my cheeks.  The beautiful image which had so bewitched me faded gradually from my imagination, and I returned to the still perplexing mysteries of my little neighbor’s chamber.

All was still there now.  No plaintive sounds, no monotonous murmurs, no shutting of windows and doors at strange hours, as if something or somebody were coming in or going out, or there was something to be hidden in those dark mahogany presses.  Is there an inner apartment that I have not seen?  The way in which the house is built might admit of it.  As I thought it over, I at once imagined a Bluebeard’s chamber.  Suppose, for instance, that the narrow bookshelves to the right are really only a masked door, such as we remember leading to the private study of one of our most distinguished townsmen, who loved to steal away from his stately library to that little silent cell.  If this were lighted from above, a person or persons might pass their days there without attracting attention from the household, and wander where they pleased at night,—­to Copp’s-Hill burial-ground, if they liked,—­I said to myself, laughing, and pulling the bed-clothes over my head.  There is no logic in superstitious-fancies any more than in dreams.  A she-ghost wouldn’t want an inner chamber to herself.  A live woman, with a valuable soprano voice, wouldn’t start off at night to sprain her ankles over the old graves of the North-End cemetery.