It was in vain for anyone to deny the truth of these assertions, which, as we have already seen, were made manifest to wondering thousands; and it would be equally useless to deny also that similar warnings had been given in similar cases. The dead body of Maria Martin, of Red Barn notoriety, was discovered through the agency of a dream. This was incontestably proved upon the trial of William Corder, her murderer. We are not for a moment assuming that it would be wise of anyone to put trust in dreams, signs, or omens of any sort――such an act would be the worst of folly. Superstition is a blight, a mildew, and a curse to all who come under its fatal influence, and to a certain extent it was a blight upon the young life of Jane Ryan. She had borne up for years hopefully and trustfully, in the full belief that the death of her lover would be avenged. Now that this had come to pass, Jane felt that her mission was fulfilled. She had little to care for, nothing to hope, and it mattered not to her how her future course was shaped. She consulted the wise woman who had prognosticated the appearance of Gregson at the farmhouse. The woman told her to forget the past, and look hopefully to the future, which is about the best advice she could give. But Jane found it difficult to forget. A shadow had fallen upon her like a funeral pall. One afternoon, while sitting alone in the breakfast-room of Oakfield, she met with a surprise. She had been at needlework. She put this aside, and leaning her head on her hand, with her elbow resting on the table, she fell into one of those deep reveries which had been so frequent with her of late. A hand was placed on her shoulder, whereupon she gave a slight scream. Upon looking up she found Mr. Richard Ashbrook by her side; his brother John had gone with his sister to pay a visit to a neighbouring agriculturist. The farmer smiled, and said, good-naturedly―― “Why, Jane, lass, thee beest eas’ly frightened.” “I did not know anyone was here,” she answered, “and I was a little startled, and that’s the truth.” “You’ve got very timursome o’ late. Tell me, girl, what ails ye? Ye gets paler and thinner every mortal day; and ye see we are getting a bit concerned.” “Oh, I’m all right,” she answered, with a faint smile. “There’s nothin’ amiss wi’ me.” “Aye, but there is, gell. I tell ’ee thee is getting in a bad way. Dall it, I do not want to see ye go melancholy mad.” “Oh, I shan’t do that.” “Jane,” said the farmer, in a more solemn and serious tone than he was wont to assume; “ye been a thinkin’ an’ a thinkin’ till your brain becomes all of a whirl. Tell us, lass, what ails ye, and if anything can be done to put thee right it sha’ be done. You know, Jane, we all o’ us are as fond o’ ye as if――as if ye were our own flesh and blood. Your troubles are our troubles, an’――well, what was I saying? Oh, you must not look like that.” “How am I to look, then?” “More natural like.”