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The clear, frank tones of the speaker gave me courage. “We are two men,” I answered, “strangers in this region, and living for the time in the beautiful country on the other side of the river. Having heard of this quiet city, we have come to see it for ourselves. We had supposed it to be uninhabited, but now that we find that this is not the case, we would assure you from our hearts that we do not wish to disturb or annoy any one who lives here. We simply came as honest travellers to view the city.”

The figure now seated herself again, and as her countenance was nearer to us, we could see that it was filled with pensive thought. For a moment she looked at us without speaking. “Men!” she said. “And so I have been right. For a long time I have believed that the beings who sometimes come here, filling us with dread and awe, are men.”

“And you,” I exclaimed–“who are you, and who are these forms that we have seen, these strange inhabitants of this city?”

She gently smiled as she answered, “We are the ghosts of the future. We are the people who are to live in this city generations hence. But all of us do not know that, principally because we do not think about it and study about it enough to know it. And it is generally believed that the men and women who sometimes come here are ghosts who haunt the place.”

“And that is why you are terrified and flee from us?” I exclaimed. “You think we are ghosts from another world?”

“Yes,” she replied; “that is what is thought, and what I used to think.”

“And you,” I asked, “are spirits of human beings yet to be?”

“Yes,” she answered; “but not for a long time. Generations of men–I know not how many–must pass away before we are men and women.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Bentley, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to the sky, “I shall be a spirit before you are a woman.”

“Perhaps,” she said again, with a sweet smile upon her face, “you may live to be very, very old.”

But Bentley shook his head. This did not console him. For some minutes I stood in contemplation, gazing upon the stone pavement beneath my feet. “And this,” I ejaculated, “is a city inhabited by the ghosts of the future, who believe men and women to be phantoms and spectres?”

She bowed her head.

“But how is it,” I asked, “that you discovered that you are spirits and we mortal men?”

“There are so few of us who think of such things,” she answered, “so few who study, ponder, and reflect. I am fond of study, and I love philosophy; and from the reading of many books I have learned much. From the book which I have here I have learned most; and from its teachings I have gradually come to the belief, which you tell me is the true one, that we are spirits and you men.”

“And what book is that?” I asked.

“It is ‘The Philosophy of Relative Existences,’ by Rupert Vance.”

“Ye gods!” I exclaimed, springing upon the balcony, “that is my book, and I am Rupert Vance.” I stepped toward the volume to seize it, but she raised her hand.

“You cannot touch it,” she said. “It is the ghost of a book. And did you write it?”

“Write it? No,” I said; “I am writing it. It is not yet finished.”

“But here it is,” she said, turning over the last pages. “As a spirit book it is finished. It is very successful; it is held in high estimation by intelligent thinkers; it is a standard work.”

I stood trembling with emotion. “High estimation!” I said. “A standard work!”

“Oh yes,” she replied, with animation; “and it well deserves its great success, especially in its conclusion. I have read it twice.”

“But let me see these concluding pages,” I exclaimed. “Let me look upon what I am to write.”