All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply sat still, looking out of the east window. “No,” she said, gently, to Ruth, “nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired.” When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seeming to do so. “Let's go for a walk,” she said. She tried to speak lightly, but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart. They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods, following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the log across the path. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking, then suddenly, she knew that something was wrong with Carl. Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried to swallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him, gently, once or twice and he did not seem to hear. “Carl!” she cried in agony, “Carl! What is it?” He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. “Nothing, darling,” he said unsteadily, with something of the old tenderness. “I'm weak--and foolish--that's all.” “Carl! Dearest!” she cried, and then broke down, sobbing bitterly. Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. “Ruth, my darling girl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it doesn't matter--nothing matters in the whole, wide world.” After a little, she regained her self-control. “Come out into the sun,” he said, “it's ghostly here. You don't seem real to me, Ruth.” The mist filled her eyes again. “Don't, darling,” he pleaded, “I'll try to tell you.” They sat down on the hillside, where the sun shone brightly, and where they could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly. She waited, frightened and suffering, for what seemed an eternity, before he spoke. “Last night, Ruth,” he began, “my father came to me in a dream. You know he died when I was about twelve years old, and last night I saw him as he would have been if he had lived until now--something over sixty. His hair and beard were matted and there was the most awful expression in his eyes--it makes me shudder yet. He was in his grave clothes, dead and yet not dead. He was suffering--there was something he was trying to say to me; something he wanted to explain. We were out here on the hill in the moonlight and I could see Miss Ainslie's house and hear the surf behind the cliff. All he could say to me was: 'Abby--Mary--Mary--Abby--she--Mary,' over and over again. Once he said 'mother.' Abby was my mother's name. “It is terrible,” he went on. “I can't understand it. There is something I must do, and I don't know what it is. A command is laid on me by the dead--there is some wrong for which I must atone. When I first awoke, I thought it was a dream, but it isn't, it's real. It seems as though that was the real world, and this--all our love and happiness, and you, were just dreams. I can't bear it, Ruth!”