“And suddenly an agony shook me like the agonies of birth and death, and the sky was full of great-winged angels who rolled up the mist as a cloth, and drew the veils from the eyes of Night, and there, her feet upon the globe, and her star-set head piercing the firmament of heaven, stood Hope breathing peace and beauty. She looked north and south and east and west, then she looked upwards through the arching vaults of heaven, and wherever she set her eyes, bright with holy tears, the darkness shrivelled and sorrow ceased, and from corruption arose the Incorruptible. I gazed and worshipped, and as I did so, again the sea spoke unquestioned: “‘In darkness thou hast found light, in Death seek for wisdom.’ “Then once more Hope rent her starry robes, and the angels drew down a veil over the eyes of Night, and the sea swallowed me, and I sank till I reached the deep foundations of mortal death. And there in the Halls of Death I sat for ages upon ages, till at last I saw you come, and on your lips was the word of wisdom that makes all things clear, but what it was I cannot remember. Then I stretched out my hand to greet you, and woke, and that is all my dream.” She ceased, her grey eyes set wide, as though they still strove to trace their spiritual vision upon the air of earth, her breast heaving, and her lips apart. “Great heaven!” he said, “what an imagination you must have to dream such a dream as that.” “Imagination,” she answered, returning to her natural manner. “I have none, Mr. Bingham. I used to have, but I lost it when I lost—everything else. Can you interpret my dream? Of course you cannot; it is nothing but nonsense—such stuff as dreams are made of, that is all.” “It may be nonsense, I daresay it is, but it is beautiful nonsense,” he answered. “I wish ladies had more of such stuff to give the world.” “Ah, well, dreams may be wiser than wakings, and nonsense than learned talk, for all we know. But there’s an end of it. I do not know why I repeated it to you. I am sorry that I did repeat it, but it seemed so real it shook me out of myself. This is what comes of breaking in upon the routine of life by being three parts drowned. One finds queer things at the bottom of the sea, you know. By the way I hope that you are recovering. I do not think that you will care to go canoeing again with me, Mr. Bingham.” There was an opening for a compliment here, but Geoffrey felt that it would be too much in earnest if spoken, so he resisted the temptation. “What, Miss Granger,” he said, “should a man say to a lady who but last night saved his life, at the risk, indeed almost at the cost, of her own?” “It was nothing,” she answered, colouring; “I clung to you, that was all, more by instinct than from any motive. I think I had a vague idea that you might float and support me.” “Miss Granger, the occasion is too serious for polite fibs. I know how you saved my life. I do not know how to thank you for it.”