"I anticipated something of the kind," he said, after a moment or two of silence. "It is very strange. Listen, Anne: at the time, the exact time, so far as I can roughly calculate, at which you thought you saw me, I was _dreaming_ of you. It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon, was it not?" Anne bowed her head in assent. "That would have made it about six o'clock where we then were," he went on consideringly. "Yes; it was about seven when I awoke. I had lain down that afternoon with a frightful headache. Poor Graham had died shortly before midnight the night before, and I had not been able to sleep, though I was very tired. I daresay I was not altogether in what the doctors call a normal condition, from the physical fatigue and the effect generally of having watched him die. I was feeling less _earthly_, if you can understand, than one usually does. It is--to me at least--_impossible_ to watch a deathbed without wondering about it all--about what comes after--intensely. And Graham was so good, so patient and resigned and trustful, though it was awfully hard for him to die. He had every reason to wish to live. Well, Anne, when I fell asleep that afternoon I at once began dreaming about you. I had been thinking about you a great deal, constantly almost, ever since we set sail. For, just before starting, I had got a hint that this appointment--I have not told you about it yet, but that will keep; I have accepted it, as you see by my being here--I got a hint that it would probably be offered me, and that if I didn't mind paying my passage back almost as soon as I got out, I had better make up my mind to accept it. I felt that it hung upon _you_, and yet I did not see how to find out what you would say without--without risking what I _had_--your sisterly friendship. It came into my head just as I was falling asleep that I would write to you from the Cape, and tell you of Graham's death to avoid any mistaken report, and that I might in my letter somehow feel my way a little. This was all in my mind, and as I fell asleep it got confused so that I did not know afterwards clearly where to separate it from my dream." "And what was the dream?" asked Anne breathlessly. "_Almost precisely what you saw_," he replied. "I fancied myself here--rushing upstairs to the library in my haste to see you--to tell you I was not dead, and to ask you if you would have cared much had it been so. I saw all the scene--the hall, the staircase already lighted. This room--and you coming in at the door with a half-frightened, half-eager look in your face. Then it grew confused. I next remember standing here beside you on the hearthrug with my hand on your shoulder--_thus_, Anne--and gazing into your eyes, and struggling, _struggling_ to ask you what I wanted so terribly to know. But the words would not come, and the agony seemed to awake me. Yet with the awaking came the answer. _Something_ had answered me; I said to myself, 'Yes, Anne does love me.'"