“What was it?  What was it like?” they all cried together, while Berthhold looked around the room, as though expecting the vision to be repeated.

They were called to order by their leader, and he went on,—­

“A soft, misty light filled the room, and rested at last just before me.  I strained my eyes to assure myself that I was not dreaming, and looked upon all your faces to assure myself that I was of the earth, and not a spirit.  Then my eyes seemed to be fastened upon the light.  In vain I tried to remove them; I could not; and only hoped none of you would notice me.

“Soon a face, radiant and fair, burst from the mist; one almost too lovely to gaze upon.  I was spellbound as I gazed, then the vision of the face faded.  I seemed to float away, far over the sea, and there came before my sight a low, humble cot, whose walls offered no resistance to my vision.  They seemed like glass as I looked through them, and saw sitting in a chair an old woman, wrinkled and faded, her hair white as snow, but on her face a peace which gathers on those who sleep the last sleep.

“I also felt conscious of another presence, but could not see any one.  Then all was dark again.  I saw neither mist nor cot, but something spoke to me.  A voice whispered in my ear, ’Tell Milan I forgive him.’  That is the name of my mother’s father.”

“How strange,” said the listeners, who had followed him closely to the end.

“Does your grandfather still live?” inquired one.

“He was alive this morning, and is now, for aught I know.”

The party were about to separate, when a messenger entered in great haste, and called for Berthold, stating that his (Berthold’s) grandfather was very ill, and greatly desired his presence.

He was not long in answering the summons, leaving those who had listened to his story wondering over it, which wonder was not a little increased by this sudden call.

It was thought that the old gentleman was dying, but when Berthold went and sat by his side he brightened up, and motioned for the others to leave the room.

“I have been very ill,” he said, grasping the hand of his grandson, “and have had a terrible dream.  For fear I may some day depart suddenly, I wish to tell you of a portion of my early life, that you may avoid the sin, and escape the suffering which I have endured.”

He then related the wrong of his early years, in deluding a young and pure girl, while loving another.

“Have you a picture of the one you allude to,” asked Berthold.

His grandfather started as though a voice from the other world had spoken to him.

“Why, how do you know that?  No one but myself knows that I carry her miniature about me.”

“May I see it?” asked his grandson, not a little alarmed at the excited manner of the sick man.

“Yes,—­that is if no one knows it,—­not even Laura.  Mind, Berthold, your grandmother knows nothing of this,—­not a word.”