night, and there are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet.’

‘The black press? where is that?’ I asked. ‘You are talking in your sleep!’

‘It’s against the wall, as it always is,’ she replied. ‘It DOES appear odd - I see a face in it!’

‘There’s no press in the room, and never was,’ said I, resuming my seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her.

‘Don’t YOU see that face?’ she inquired, gazing earnestly at the mirror.

And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl.