Lilith

Had I come to myself out of a vision?−−or lost myself by going back to one? Which was the real−−what I
now saw, or what I had just ceased to see? Could both be real, interpenetrating yet unmingling?
I threw myself on a couch, and fell asleep.
In the library was one small window to the east, through which, at this time of the year, the first rays of the
sun shone upon a mirror whence they were reflected on the masked door: when I woke, there they shone, and
thither they drew my eyes. With the feeling that behind it must lie the boundless chamber I had left by that
door, I sprang to my feet, and opened it. The light, like an eager hound, shot before me into the closet, and
pounced upon the gilded edges of a large book.
"What idiot," I cried, "has put that book in the shelf the wrong way?"
But the gilded edges, reflecting the light a second time, flung it on a nest of drawers in a dark corner, and I
saw that one of them was half open.
"More meddling!" I cried, and went to close the drawer.
It contained old papers, and seemed more than full, for it would not close. Taking the topmost one out, I
perceived that it was in my father's writing and of some length. The words on which first my eyes fell, at
once made me eager to learn what it contained. I carried it to the library, sat down in one of the western
windows, and read what follows.
CHAPTER VIII. MY FATHER'S MANUSCRIPT
I am filled with awe of what I have to write. The sun is shining golden above me; the sea lies blue beneath his
gaze; the same world sends its growing things up to the sun, and its flying things into the air which I have
breathed from my infancy; but I know the outspread splendour a passing show, and that at any moment it
may, like the drop−scene of a stage, be lifted to reveal more wonderful things.
Shortly after my father's death, I was seated one morning in the library. I had been, somewhat listlessly,
regarding the portrait that hangs among the books, which I knew only as that of a distant ancestor, and
wishing I could learn something of its original. Then I had taken a book from the shelves and begun to read.
Glancing up from it, I saw coming toward me−−not between me and the door, but between me and the
portrait−−a thin pale man in rusty black. He looked sharp and eager, and had a notable nose, at once
reminding me of a certain jug my sisters used to call Mr. Crow.
"Finding myself in your vicinity, Mr. Vane, I have given myself the pleasure of calling," he said, in a peculiar
but not disagreeable voice. "Your honoured grandfather treated me−−I may say it without presumption−−as a
friend, having known me from childhood as his father's librarian."
It did not strike me at the time how old the man must be.
"May I ask where you live now, Mr. Crow?" I said.
He smiled an amused smile.
Lilith
"You nearly hit my name," he rejoined, "which shows the family insight. You have seen me before, but only
once, and could not then have heard it!"
Lilith 24