I looked round cautiously, and—was entirely disappointed of my hope. The veil, which shrouded her whole face, was too thick for me to see more than the glitter of bright eyes and the hazy outline of what _might_ be a lovely oval face, but might also, unfortunately, be an equally _un_lovely one. I closed my eyes again, saying to myself “—couldn’t have a better chance for an experiment in Telepathy! I’ll _think out_ her face, and afterwards test the portrait with the original.” At first, no result at all crowned my efforts, though I ‘divided my swift mind,’ now hither, now thither, in a way that I felt sure would have made Æneas green with envy: but the dimly-seen oval remained as provokingly blank as ever—a mere Ellipse, as if in some mathematical diagram, without even the Foci that might be made to do duty as a nose and a mouth. Gradually, however, the conviction came upon me that I could, by a certain concentration of thought, _think the veil away_, and so get a glimpse of the mysterious face—as to which the two questions, “is she pretty?” and “is she plain?”, still hung suspended, in my mind, in beautiful equipoise. Success was partial—and fitful—still there _was_ a result: ever and anon, the veil seemed to vanish, in a sudden flash of light: but, before I could fully realise the face, all was dark again. In each such glimpse, the face seemed to grow more childish and more innocent: and, when I had at last _thought_ the veil entirely away, it was, unmistakeably, the sweet face of little Sylvie! “So, either I’ve been dreaming about Sylvie,” I said to myself, “and this is the reality. Or else I’ve really been with Sylvie, and this is a dream! Is Life itself a dream, I wonder?” To occupy the time, I got out the letter, which had caused me to take this sudden railway-journey from my London home down to a strange fishing-town on the North coast, and read it over again:— “_Dear old Friend_, “_I’m sure it will be as great a pleasure to me, as it can possibly be to you, to meet once more after so many years: and of course I shall be ready to give you all the benefit of such medical skill as I have: only, you know, one mustn’t violate professional etiquette! And you are already in the hands of a first-rate London doctor, with whom it would be utter affectation for me to pretend to compete. (I make no doubt he is right in saying the heart is affected: all your symptoms point that way.) One thing, at any rate, I have already done in my doctorial capacity—secured you a bedroom on the ground-floor, so that you will not need to ascend the stairs at all._ “_I shall expect you by last train on Friday, in accordance with your letter: and, till then, I shall say, in the words of the old song, ‘Oh for Friday nicht! Friday’s lang a-coming!’_ “_Yours always_, “_Arthur Forester_. “_P.S. Do you believe in Fate?_”