Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and lifeless in his arms. Picture after picture of the past passed before his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him. The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright, beautiful, girlish as ever, both hands filled with flowers, which she playfully held out to him. Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds. Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt, and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and distinctly, “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring. What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky. The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in and out between the pillars like a shadow almost in the dimness of the light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream? He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there, on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French letters, “_Sans espoir je meurs!_” CHAPTER XI.