"I declare to goodness, Clara, you will make me angry!" was his retort, his voice changing to severity. "What has come over you these last few days?" "That dream has come over me," she replied, with a shiver. "I thought it was done with; done with by the accident of last night; and now the sight of this kitchen has renewed it in all its horror. If you could, only for one minute, feel as I am feeling, you would not wonder at me." Her state of mind appeared to him most unaccountable: not foolish; that was not the word; far worse than foolish--obstinate and unreasonable. Never in his life had he spoken so sharply to her as he spoke now. Perhaps his recent intercourse with that equable woman of the world, Sir George's relict, had given him new ideas. "I should be sorry to feel it, even for a minute; I should be ashamed to do so: and I feel ashamed for you. What did you want with me?" "To show you the kitchen. To tell you this." He gave vent to an impatient word, and turned angrily to the door. She, her heart bursting, went forward to the window. Just so had it been in the dream; just so had they seemed to part, he going to the door and she to the window; just so had been her sharp conviction of coming evil. Mr. Lake looked back at her; she had laid her head against the wall near the window: her hands drooped down; in her whole air there was an utter agony of abandonment. His better nature returned to him, and he walked across the kitchen. As he drew her face from the wall he saw that it was white, and the tears were running down her cheeks. "Clara," he exclaimed, as he took her to himself, "must I treat you and soothe you as I would a child?" "No, treat me as your wife," she passionately answered, breaking into a storm of sobs. He suffered her to sob for a few moments, until the paroxysm had spent itself, and then spoke; in a tone of remonstrance, it is true, but with deep tenderness. "Is it possible that you can allow a foolish superstition, a dream, to cause this wild grief?" "It is not the dream that is causing the _grief_. You are causing that: you never so spoke to me: when I said it might foretel my death, you turned my words into ridicule. It is as if you do not care whether I live or die." "Clara, you know better. What can I do for you? How can I soothe you?" "Do not speak to me in that tone again." "My dearest, I will do anything you wish in reason; you know I will, but you must not ask me to put faith in a dream. And if my voice sounded harsh--why, it would vex any man to find his wife so foolish." "Well, well, it shall pass; I will not vex you with it again. If any ill does come, it must; and if not--" "If not, you will acknowledge what a silly child you have been," he interrupted, kissing the scalding tears from her face. "Silly, and superstitious, if you will," she whispered, "but not a child. I think I am less a child at heart than many who are older. Robert, if you ever grew unkind to me, I should die."