"Well, John--only you take me up so--and I'm sure I shouldn't like to anger you. I was about to add that I think it is not so much illness of body with Ellin as illness of mind. If one's mind is ransacked with perpetual worry----" "Racked with perpetual worry," interrupted Mr. Delorane, unconsciously correcting her mistake. "What has she to worry her?" "Dear me! I suppose it is about William Brook. He has been gone nearly two years, John, and seems to be no nearer coming home with a fortune than he was when he left. I take it that this troubles the child: she is losing hope." Mr. Delorane, standing before the open window, his back to his sister, turned the silver coins about in his pockets more vehemently than before. "You say she is not ailing in body?" "Not yet. She is never very strong, you know." "Then there's no need to be uneasy." "Well, John--not yet, perhaps. But should this state of despair, if I don't use too strong a word, continue, it will tell in tune upon her health, and might bring on--bring on----" "Bring on what?" sharply asked the lawyer. "I was thinking of her mother," said poor Aunt Hester, with as much deprecation as though he had been the Great Mogul: "but I trust, John, you won't be too angry with me for saying it." Mr. Delorane did not say whether he was angry or not. He stood there, fingering his sixpences and shillings, gazing apparently at the grass-plat, in reality seeing nothing. He was recalling a past vision: that of his delicate wife, dying of consumption before her time; he seemed to see a future vision: that of his daughter, dying as she had died. "When it comes to dreams," timidly went on Aunt Hester, "I can't say I like it. Not that I am one to put faith in the foolish signs old wives talk of--that if you dream of seeing a snake, you've got an enemy; or, if you seem to be in the midst of a lot of beautiful white flowers, it's a token of somebody's death. I am not so silly as that, John. But for some time past Ellin has dreamt perpetually of one theme--that of being in trouble about William Brook. Night after night she seems to be searching for him: he is lost, and she cannot tell how or where." Had Aunt Hester suddenly begun to hold forth in the unknown tongue, it could not have brought greater surprise to Mr. Delorane. He turned short round to stare at her. "Seeing what a wan and weary face the child has come down with of late, I taxed her with not sleeping well," continued Aunt Hester, "and she confessed to me that she was feeling a good bit troubled by her dreams. She generally has them towards morning, and the theme is always the same. The dreams vary, but the subject is alike in all--William Brook is lost, and she is searching for him." "Nonsense! Rubbish!" put in Mr. Delorane.