He shuddered, and she tried to comfort him, though she was cold as a marble statue and her lips moved with difficulty. “Don't, dear,” she said, “It was only a dream. I've had them sometimes, so vividly that they haunted me for days and, as you say, it seemed as if that was the real world and this the dream. I know how you feel--those things aren't pleasant, but there's nothing we can do. It makes one feel so helpless. The affairs of the day are largely under our control, but at night, when the body is asleep, the mind harks back to things that have been forgotten for years. It takes a fevered fancy as a fact, and builds upon it a whole series of disasters. It gives trivial things great significance and turns life upside down. Remembering it is the worst of all.” “There's something I can't get at, Ruth,” he answered. “It's just out of my reach. I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream and that it can be explained by natural causes, but I don't dream very often.” “I dream every night,” she said. “Sometimes they're just silly, foolish things and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't forget for weeks. But, surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believe in dreams?” “No, I hope not,” he replied, doubtfully. “Let's go for a little walk,” she said, “and we'll forget it.” Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her, sitting aimlessly by the window. “I don't think I'd better stay away long,” she concluded, “she may need me.” “I won't be selfish, Ruth; we'll go back now. I'm sorry Miss Ainslie isn't well.” “She said she was 'just tired' but it isn't like her to be tired. She doesn't seem to want anybody near her, but you can sit in the garden this afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out like an industrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leave them in the arbour for you.” “All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tell me.” As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gate and went toward the village. “Who's that?” asked Winfield. “I don't know--some one who has brought something, probably. I trust she's better.” Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself, as she moved about the house, dusting and putting the rooms in order, as was her wont. At noon she fried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cup of tea. “No, deary,” she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question, “I'm all right--don't fret about me.” “Have you any pain, Miss Ainslie?” “No, of course I haven't, you foolish child!” She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully. In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in the open fireplace, and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front of it. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back. “I'm so comfortable, now,” she said drowsily; “I think I'm going to sleep, dear.”