In response Annette opened the door. "Pardon, Mademoiselle, but it is five o'clock, and I thought you might like your tea up here instead of downstairs." "Capital, Annette," exclaimed Eleanor, as the maid entered carrying a tray. "Wait a moment, and I will get that small table." Deftly she removed the books and magazines, and then carried the table over to the couch. Annette put a tray laden with tempting sandwiches, small cakes, the teapot and its accessories, on the table, then bent over and arranged Cynthia's pillows at her back with practiced hand. "Mademoiselle is more comfortable, _n'est-ce pas?_" she asked briskly. "Yes, indeed, Annette," Cynthia nodded gratefully at the Frenchwoman. "Have you everything you wish, Mademoiselle Eleanor?" "Yes, Annette, thank you. If I want anything more I will ring." "Be sure and close the door, Annette," directed Cynthia, "I am afraid of a draft"; and she looked around until she saw her order obeyed. "Have a sandwich?" asked Eleanor, handing the dish and a plate to Cynthia. "I'd rather eat good sandwiches than solid food," announced Cynthia, after a pause, helping herself to another portion. "Solid?" echoed Eleanor. "I call _pâté de foie gras_ and deviled ham pretty solid eating, Cynthia; especially when taken in bulk," glancing quizzically at the rapidly diminishing pile. "Don't begrudge me these crumbs." Cynthia's smile was followed by a sigh. "I've lived on slops for three days. Why are you giving me such weak tea, Eleanor? I loathe it made that way." "I am afraid to make it stronger, Cynthia, it will keep you awake." "I don't want to sleep; I'd give anything _not_ to sleep!" "Why, Cynthia!" "If I could really sleep--drop into oblivion--I would like it, but instead I dream, and, oh, God! I fear my dream." Eleanor laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Lie down," she commanded, "and compose yourself." Cynthia lay back on her pillows, panting a little from her exertion, the color coming and going in her winsome face. "I would give anything, Eleanor, if I had your tranquil disposition," she said, more quietly. "I cannot help my temperament. My mother was Scotch to the fingertips, and, I have been told, had the gift of second-sight--although I sometimes doubt if such a thing is a gift." "Perhaps I can understand better than you think," said Eleanor gently. "My mother was Irish, and the Irish, you know, are just as great believers in the supernatural as the Scotch." "You always understand," Cynthia bent forward and kissed her friend warmly. "That's why you are such a comfort. Let me tell you why I am so nervous and unstrung. Since a little child I have been obsessed by one dream, it is always the same, and always precedes disaster." She sighed, drearily. "I had it just before my grandmother's death; then before my uncle, Mr. Winthrop, killed himself; and on Sunday night I had it again." She shuddered as she spoke. "What is your dream?"