“What’s the matter, dearie?” cried Mrs. Welsh, jumping out of bed and hastening to open the door. “What’s the matter?” she repeated, her arms about her daughter. “Not sick?” For Mamie’s face in the dim light was positively ghastly, so livid and drawn it was. “No, I—I’m not sick,” sobbed Mamie, suddenly giving way and clinging desperately to her mother. “I—I don’t know what it is, only I’m so worried about Allan.” And Mrs. Welsh, with a sudden tightening of the heart, understood. “There, there,” she said, and she drew her daughter’s head down upon her shoulder and patted her soothingly. “There, there; he’ll be back safe an’ sound, dearie, never fear!” “But oh! mother! I dreamed such a terrible dream. He was in some awful danger, hurt and bleeding, in the dark, and a horrible man was torturing him, and he called to me and held out his hands. I heard his voice, mother, as plainly as I hear yours—it woke me up,” and Mamie shivered convulsively at the remembrance. Mrs. Welsh was no more superstitious than the ordinary Irish woman, but there was something in the words—something in the voice which uttered them—which somehow struck a responsive chord in her, and she shivered in sympathy with the trembling figure she held in her arms. Jack, meanwhile, disturbed by all this talking, suddenly awakened to find his wife missing, and sat up in bed rubbing his eyes and staring at the ghostly figures near the door. “Who’s that?” he asked, but a convulsive sob from Mamie told who it was, and thoroughly awakened at last, he was out of bed in an instant. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s the matter with you women?” “Mamie’s worried about Allan,” answered Mrs. Welsh, hugging tight the shivering figure in her arms. “Oh, dad!” sobbed Mamie. “I dreamed about him and he—he was calling me!” “Calling you? What d’ye mean, Mamie?” “He was calling me to come to him. Oh, dad, we must go!” “Go?” repeated Jack, in amazement. “Go where?” “Out to Schooley’s—or wherever it is—you will, won’t you, dad?” She had her arms around her father, now, and there was a pathos, an entreaty in her voice that wrung his heart. “I was goin’ out this mornin’, anyway,” he said, smoothing her hair gently, “an’ I guess I might as well start now.” “And I’m going with you, dad.” “No, no,” he protested. “What good would that do, Mamie?” “Good!” she cried. “Why, dad, you don’t know where to find him!” “And do you?” Her face changed—seemed to whiten and harden—and her eyes stared past them into the gloom. “Yes!” she whispered, her hands clasped tight against her heart. Mrs. Welsh, her hand grasping Jack’s arm, nodded to him to consent. “All right,” he agreed, his voice not wholly steady. “All right, Mamie. Jump into your clothes. Maybe we kin ketch first ninety-eight.”