"I suppose so," says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream, and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in their sleep." "But I never. Oh! what is it?" says she, as if appealing to him to explain herself to herself. "Was," faintly flushing, "any one else here? Did any one see me?" "No one. They are in bed; all asleep." "And you?" doubtfully. "I couldn't sleep," returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her. "I must go," says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door; her one thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill, unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if, for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself?--cannot know where her mind will carry her when deadly sleep has fallen upon her? It is a hateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has he over her? Oh! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at home to-morrow--safe with Barbara. Her hand is on the door. She is going. "Joyce," says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. So keenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony must make itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving him forever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truth she is his life, the entire happiness of it--if she goes through that door unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable. She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with nervous excitement; her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color. "Yes?" says she interrogatively, impatiently. "I am going away to-morrow--I shall not----" "Yes, yes--I know. I am going, too." "I shall not see you again?" "I hope not--I think not." She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little light touch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into the dark hall outside. "Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man, passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me." "Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely face full of curious wonder. "Yes--yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said--I swear it! I----Joyce, forgive me!" The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his--such eyes! There is a little pause, and then: "Oh, no! Never--never!" says she. Her tone is very low and clear--not angry, not even hasty or reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope. She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone! It is all over! * * * * *