While seated at the window of his room looking out upon the crowded
street, with every now and then the strange scene in the graveyard
vividly before him, Jerome suddenly thought of the book he had
been reading, and, remembering that he had left it on the
tombstone, where he dropped it when called to the lady's
assistance, he determined to return for it at once.
After a walk of some twenty minutes, he found himself again in the
burial-ground and on the spot where he had been an hour before. The
pensive moon was already up, and its soft light was sleeping on
the little pond at the back of the grounds, while the stars seemed
smiling at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from the beautiful
sheet of water.
Jerome searched in vain for his book; it was nowhere to be found.
Nothing, save the bouquet that the lady had dropped and which lay
half-buried in the grass, from having been trodden upon, indicated
that any one had been there that evening. The stillness of death
reigned over the place; even the little birds, that had before
been twittering and flying about, had retired for the night.
Taking up the bunch of flowers, Jerome returned to his hotel.
"What can this mean?" he would ask himself; "and why should they
take my book?" These questions he put to himself again and again
during his walk. His sleep was broken more than once that night,
and he welcomed the early dawn as it made its appearance.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE HAPPY MEETING.
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