"They say that the first dream in new quarters comes true," threw in the Broom-Squire; "but this is the idle chatter of old wives. I make no count of it." Mehetabel observed that Iver started and seemed disconcerted at this question relative to his dream. He evaded an answer, and she saw that the topic was unpleasant, and to reply inconvenient. She said no more; and Jonas had other matters to think about more substantial than dreams. Yet Mehetabel could not fail to perceive that their guest was out of tune. Was he annoyed at having lost money, or was he in reality troubled by something that had occurred during the night? An hour later Iver prepared to leave. "Come with me a little way," he pleaded with the hostess, "see me safe off the premises." She did as was desired, though not without inner reluctance. And yet, at the same time she felt that with his departure a something would be gone that could not be replaced, a light out of her sky, a strain of music out of her soul. The white fog lay like curd at the bottom of the Punch-Bowl. Here and there a tree-top stood above the vapor, but only as a bosky islet in the surface of mist, dense and chill. The smoke from the chimneys of the squatter houses rose like steaming springs, but the brick chimneys were submerged. So dense was the fog that it muffled all sound, impeded the breath, struck cold to the marrow. It smelt, for the savors of hog-pen and cow-stall were caught and not allowed to dissipate. A step, and those ascending the side of the great basin were out of the mist, and in sunshine, but it still held their feet to the knees; another step and they were clear, and then their shadows were cast, gigantic, upon the white surface below, and about each head was a halo of light and rainbow tints. Every bush was twinkling as hung with diamonds of the purest water. Larks were trilling, pouring forth in song the ecstasy that swelled their hearts. The sky was blue as a nemophyla, and cloudless. As soon as Iver and Mehetabel had issued from the fog and were upon the heath, and in the sunshine, she stayed her feet. "I will go no further," she said. "Look," said he, "how the fog lies below at the bottom of the Punch-Bowl, as though it were snow. Above, on the downs all is sunshine." "Yes, you go up into the light and warmth," answered she. "I must back and down into the cold vapors, cold as death." He thought of his dream. There was despondency in her tone. "The sun will pierce and scatter the vapors and shine over and warm you below." She shook her head. "Iver," she said, "you may tell me now we are alone. What was your dream?" Again he appeared disconcerted. "Of what, of whom did you dream?" "Of whom else could I dream but you--when under your roof," said he with a laugh. "Oh, Iver! and what did you dream about me?" "Arrant nonsense. Dreams go by contraries." "Then what about me?" "I dreamt of your marriage." "Then that means death."