“You dreamt these dreams as a child?” he began. “They ought to be forgotten—dead.” Then she told him simply, in her imperfect English, what her trouble really was. As a young child, she had been much like other children, without their life and cheerfulness when awake. But no sooner did she sleep than she felt herself surrounded by terrors, vague but horrible; a sense of impending doom seemed to suffocate her, yet some interior feeling made her believe that the doom was just. She heard weeping and lamenting among the dark shadows that surrounded her; and sometimes great eyes, with an expression of frantic appeal, appeared amid the gloom, and haunted her waking thoughts. “I did think the souls in Purgatory were near me,” she said. “I told the Reverend Mother of the Convent. We children could any of us go to her when we liked, just as to a real mother. Oh, much more! I could never have talked to my mother, the Marquesa, like that.” “And what did the Reverend Mother say?” asked Hugh, with a suggestion of sarcasm, for he had a good honest British distaste for the conventual system. “Oh! she laughed at me, and said little children had nothing to do with Purgatory; and she showed me a picture-book, _The Cats’ Tea Party_, and when a lay sister brought her some _bouillon_, I had some in a pretty cup.” “Altogether the bad dreams were rather a good thing than otherwise?” suggested Hugh, almost banteringly, thinking that at least that nun had some common sense, whatever dreamers the rest may have been. “I had holidays, and the doctor came, and I had more things to eat,” said Mercedes; “and everyone was so kind to me.” “Did not all that send away the bad dreams?” asked Hugh, still speaking lightly. “No,” she said, sadly. “Nothing has ever altered them. It is so—always. And I cannot care for my life!” She spoke with such despair that Hugh was touched. His determination to be harsh wavered, although he was unaware of the fact. “But, for instance, lately,” he said, thinking of Lady Forwood’s account of a cheery letter, “you have been away in the country, I understand. How did you sleep there?” “Not at all,” she said. “And it was beautiful! First came the quiet, dark night, with the scent of roses coming in with the cool air, and just a little rustle of the trees outside. Then a grey light, and the young birds twitting (is that the word?) little questions to their parents. Then the old birds began to sing sweet, happy songs, and the day came, first with blue light, then white, then pale rose. Then I got up, and from my window saw the rise of the glorious sun—ah! that waking is better than the sleep you doctors say is good. It is _not_ good, to be asleep!” Her eyes sparkled; her dejection had lifted. “I cannot agree with you,” said Hugh. “And sleep—good sleep, mind—you must have. But last night—here, in London,—you had no rest?”