“He is very like Lucy,” he muttered to himself, “and I’m glad he didn’t get out of bed.” Meantime Winnington had a dream. He was on board a beautiful boat on the Isis. It seemed to move by its own force, as if it were a silver swan; and the ripple as it went on took the form of music, and he thought it was an old tune that he had listened to in his youth. He sat beside Ellen Warleigh, with his hand locked in hers, and they watched the beautiful scenery through which the boat was gliding--past the pretty Cherwell, past the level meadows, past the Newnham woods,--and still the melody went on. Then they were in a country he did not know; there were tents of gaudy colours on the shore; and wild-eyed men in turbans and loose tunics looked out upon them. One came on board; he was a tall dark Emir, with golden-sheathed scimitar, which clanked as he stept on the seat. Winnington stood up and asked what the stranger wanted: the chief answered in Arabic, but Winnington understood him perfectly. He said he had come to put him to death for having dared to look upon his bride. He laid his grasp on him as he spoke, and tore him from Ellen’s side. In the struggle Winnington fell over, and found himself many feet in front of the fairy boat. The Arab sat down beside Ellen, and put his arm round her waist, and then he suddenly took the shape of Arthur Hayning. The boat seemed to flutter its wings, and come faster on. Winnington tried to swim to one side, but could not. On came the boat, its glittering bows flashed before his eyes--they touched him--pressed him down; he felt the keel pass over his head; and down, down, still downward he went, and, on looking up, saw nothing but the boat above him; all was dark where he was, for the keel seemed constantly between him and the surface, and yet he heard the old tune still going on. It was a tune his cousin Lucy used to play; but at last, in his descent through the darkened water, he got out of hearing, and all was silent. The music had died away--and suddenly he heard a scream, and saw Ellen struggling in the water. He made a dart towards her with arms stretched out--and overturned the candle he had left on the table at the side of his bed. SORROW AND MY HEART. To the field where I was lying Once Sorrow came a-flying, And bade me bring my heart to mould at her goodwill. Shudd’ring, I turn’d aside; “Avaunt! O fiend!” I cried, “My heart is dear to me, and none shall work it ill!” “But if thou must!” said she. “Nay,” said I, “let it be! ’Tis yet so young and tender, and so slight of make, Ungentle touch would crush it, Hard word for aye would hush it!” She smiled, and said, “Hearts sooner turn to stone than break!” “Yet stay awhile!” I pray’d; And, frowning, she obey’d; While I to cast about my sentence to evade.