'No, no. It is true. I have seen and heard. But yet, when a little time passes, you know? one wonders; one asks one's self, was it a dream?' 'That is what I fear,' he said. 'I, too, if life went on, might ask, notwithstanding all that has occurred to me, Was it a dream?' 'M. Lecamus, you will forgive me if I hurt you. You saw--_her_?' 'No. Seeing--what is seeing? It is but a vulgar sense, it is not all; but I sat at her feet. She was with me. We were one, as of old----.' A gleam of strange light came into his dim eyes. 'Seeing is not everything, Madame.' 'No, M. Lecamus. I heard the dear voice of my little Marie.' 'Nor is hearing everything,' he said hastily. 'Neither did she speak; but she was there. We were one; we had no need to speak. What is speaking or hearing when heart wells into heart? For a very little moment, only for a moment, Madame Dupin.' I put out my hand to him; I could not say a word. How was it possible that she could go away again, and leave him so feeble, so worn, alone? 'Only a very little moment,' he said, slowly. 'There were other voices--but not hers. I think I am glad it was in the spirit we met, she and I--I prefer not to see her till--after----' 'Oh, M. Lecamus, I am too much of the world! To see them, to hear them--it is for this I long.' 'No, dear Madame. I would not have it till--after----. But I must make haste, I must write, I hear the hum approaching----' I could not tell what he meant; but I asked no more. How still everything was The people lay asleep on the grass, and I, too, was overwhelmed by the great quiet. I do not know if I slept, but I dreamed. I saw a child very fair and tall always near me, but hiding her face. It appeared to me in my dream that all I wished for was to see this hidden countenance, to know her name; and that I followed and watched her, but for a long time in vain. All at once she turned full upon me, held out her arms to me. Do I need to say who it was? I cried out in my dream to the good God, that He had done well to take her from me--that this was worth it all. Was it a dream? I would not give that dream for rears of waking life. Then I started and came back, in a moment, to the still morning sunshine, the sight of the men asleep, the roughness of the wall against which I leant. Some one laid a hand on mine. I opened my eyes, not knowing what it was--if it might be my husband coming back, or her whom I had seen in my dream. It was M. Lecamus. He had risen up upon his knees--his papers were all laid aside. His eyes in those hollow caves were opened wide, and quivering with a strange light. He had caught my wrist with his worn hand. 'Listen!' he said; his voice fell to a whisper; a light broke over his face. 'Listen!' he cried; 'they are coming.' While he thus grasped my wrist, holding up his weak and wavering body in that strained attitude, the moments passed very slowly. I was afraid of him, of his worn face and thin hands, and the wild eagerness about him.