"Not at all well; she is keeping her room today," said Mary. Mr. Grubb, standing so near, could not fail to see that the letter was written to Robert Dalrymple. The reader may like to see its contents. "My DEAR ROBERT, "Considering that you and I ceased to correspond some years ago, you will be surprised at my writing to you. I have no doubt all proper-minded old ladies, including my mother, would shake their heads at me. Will you just drop me one line in answer, to say how you are, and how the world is using you, and please let it be by return of post. I have a reason for asking this. Pardon the trouble; and believe me ever affectionately yours, "MARY ISABEL LYNN." "_Have_ you brought me ill news, Francis?" she repeated. "About Robert Dalrymple?" Her brother looked at her. "Again I ask you, Mary, why you should put the question?" "I will tell you," she said: "at the risk of your laughing at me, Francis; and that I know you will do. I have had a dream about Robert, and it has made me uneasy." "A dream!" he repeated in surprise. But he did not laugh. "It was last Friday night," she went on. "I came home from your house rather tired, and--and troubled; troubled about Robert. I had seen that he was in great trouble himself; in fact, he told me so; but he would not tell me its nature. The world was using him hardly--that was the most explicit admission he made. I could not get to sleep at first for thinking of him; not before one o'clock, I dare say; and then I had a terrible dream." "You should not think of dreams, child," put in her brother. "But go on." "I thought we were in some gloomy room, Robert and I. At the end of it was a small door, closed, with an opening at the top protected by iron spikes. Beyond that narrow opening nothing could be seen, for it was dark. Robert stood near this door, facing it in silence, as if waiting for it to open, and I stood some yards behind him, waiting also. Some trouble seemed to lie upon both of us, some apprehension, but I know not what; something that could not be spoken of: it filled my heart to sickness. Suddenly the door began slowly to open; and, as the intense darkness beyond began to disclose itself more and more--a black, inky darkness that seemed to reign in illimitable space--a most frightful terror took possession of me, a terror more awful than can ever be experienced in life. Robert turned and looked at me in token of farewell, still in silence--and oh, Francis, I shall never forget the despairing misery depicted on his face. He turned it away again, and took a step towards the door, now quite open. I rushed forward with a scream and caught his arm on its threshold. 'No, no, you shall not go out there!' I cried: 'stay, and pray for deliverance.' This awoke me; awoke me to the same vivid terror I had felt in the dream," concluded Miss Lynn; "and just afterwards the clock struck two." "Two?"