“That's right, Hosy. You ought to go. You'll be sick again if you sit up any longer. Good night, dearie.” “And you?” I asked. “What are you going to do?” “I'm going to set up a spell longer. I want to think.” “I don't. I wish I might never think again. Or dream, either. I am awake at last. God knows I wish I wasn't!” She moved toward me. There was the same odd expression on her face and a queer, excited look in her eyes. “Perhaps you aren't really awake, Hosy,” she said, gently. “Perhaps this is the final dream and when you do wake you'll find--” “Oh, bosh!” I interrupted. “Don't tell me you have another presentiment. If you have keep it to yourself. Good night.” I was weak from my recent illness and I had been under a great nervous strain all that evening. These are my only excuses and they are poor ones. I spoke and acted abominably and I was sorry for it afterward. I have told Hephzy so a good many times since, but I think she understood without my telling her. “Well,” she said, quietly, “dreams are somethin', after all. It's somethin' to have had dreams. I sha'n't forget mine. Good night, Hosy.” The next morning after breakfast she announced that she had an errand or two to do. She would run out and do them, she said, but she would be gone only a little while. She was gone nearly two hours during which I paced the floor or sat by the window looking out. The crowded boulevard was below me, but I did not see it. All I saw was a future as desolate and blank as the Bayport flats at low tide, and I, a quahaug on those flats, doomed to live, or exist, forever and ever and ever, with nothing to live for. Hephzy, when she did return to the hotel, was surprisingly chatty and good-humored. She talked, talked, talked all the time, about nothing in particular, laughed a good deal, and flew about, packing our belongings and humming to herself. She acted more like the Hephzy of old than she had for weeks. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her which I could not understand. I attributed it to the fact of our leaving for America in the near future and her good humor irritated me. My spirits were lower than ever. “You seem to be remarkably happy,” I observed, fretfully. “What makes you think so, Hosy? Because I was singin'? Father used to say my singin' was the most doleful noise he ever heard, except a fog-horn on a lee shore. I'm glad if you think it's a proof of happiness: I'm much obliged for the compliment.” “Well, you are happy, or you are trying to appear so. If you are pretending for my benefit, don't. I'M not happy.” “I know, Hosy; I know. Well, perhaps you--” She didn't finish the sentence. “Perhaps what?” “Oh, nothin', nothin'. How many shirts did you bring with you? is this all?”