must not be imagined, that my occasional indulgence in such fanciful speculations as those before mentioned. arises from any useless repining after that more perfect existence of which I caught some glimpses. Is not the Edith-Reva of the present what the Reva-Edith of that existence would have been,—the sum and centre of my hopes and wishes?
Some predictions tend to bring about their own fulfilment. On my assurance that the request had an adequate reason, afterwards to be explained, Edith consented to change the date first mentioned to one slightly earlier,—the same, indeed, I had seen in that time-stained chronicle in the library at Salu. The appearance of this little story may be accepted as a certain sign that the event whose announcement I then read with such mingled emotions has actually taken place. For, in her hands, soon after we start on our journey, I intend to place the first completed copy of the story in which her name so frequently recurs. She, if possible, shall be the first to read the tale as one of the reading public. We shall visit together the site of that gently sloping lawn, on the shores of Grand Isle, where I caught my last glimpse of Olav, Hulmar, and Utis, of Ialma and Ulmene. Together we shall stand on the spot whence, as the sun went down, the awe-stricken multitude witnessed the strange espousals of the fated pair, as they rushed to their doom over the verge of the mist-covered abyss.
