"And people who are not in the habit of awaking suddenly often do the same thing," agreed her questioner; "and so, Miss Blake, we will pass out of dreamland, and into daylight--or rather foglight. Do you recollect a particularly foggy day, when your niece, hearing a favourite dog moaning piteously, opened the door of the room where her father died, in order to let it out?" Miss Blake set her lips tight, and looked up at the gallery. There was a little stir in that part of the court, a shuffling of feet, and suppressed whispering. In vain the crier shouted, "Silence! silence, there!" The bustle continued for about a minute, and then all became quiet again. A policeman stated "a female had fainted," and our curiosity being satisfied, we all with one accord turned towards our learned friend, who, one hand under his gown, holding it back, and the other raised to emphasise his question, had stood in this picturesque attitude during the time occupied in carrying the female out, as if done in stone. "Miss Blake, will you kindly answer my question?" he said, when order once again reigned in court. "You're worse than a heathen," remarked the lady, irrelevantly. "I am sorry you do not like me," he replied, "for I admire you very much; but my imperfections are beside the matter in point. What I want you to tell us is, did Miss Elmsdale open that door?" "She did--the creature, she did," was the answer; "her heart was always tender to dumb brutes." "I have no doubt the young lady's heart was everything it ought to be," was the reply; "and for that reason, though she had an intense repugnance to enter the room, she opened the door to let the dog out." "She said so: I was not there," answered Miss Blake. Whereupon ensued a brisk skirmish between counsel as to whether Miss Blake could give evidence about a matter of mere hearsay. And after they had fought for ten minutes over the legal bone, our adversary said he would put the question differently, which he did, thus: "You were sitting in the dining-room, when you were startled by hearing a piercing shriek." "I heard a screech--you can call it what you like," said Miss Blake, feeling an utter contempt for English phraseology. "I stand corrected; thank you, Miss Blake. You heard a screech, in short, and you hurried across the hall, and found Miss Elmsdale in a fainting condition, on the floor of the library. Was that so?" "She often fainted: she is all nairves," explained poor Miss Blake. "No doubt. And when she regained consciousness, she entreated to be taken out of that dreadful room." "She never liked the room after her father's death: it was natural, poor child." "Quite natural. And so you took her into the dining-room, and there, curled upon the hearthrug, fast asleep, was the little dog she fancied she heard whining in the library." "Yes, he had been away for two or three days, and came home hungry and sleepy."