"Because," Rereworth said, "they are generally felt where the result is probable. What was more likely than that Henri Quatre should die by the dagger of an assassin? These pretended second-sights, of all kinds, must, in fact, be revelations. And to admit their truth, is to depreciate the value of Revelation. I explain the whole thing with four lines from Wordsworth: 'What strange and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! Ah, mercy! to myself I cried, If Lucy should be dead!'" "And suppose Lucy's wraith flitted by at the moment," said Helen, smiling. "All in white, uncommonly like a shred of mist," added Rereworth. "Yet," Randolph urged, "there is something very picturesque in these superstitions, if such they must be called." "Certainly," said his friend. "I enjoy them, but I do not believe them. I enjoy them more than those who believe and tremble. I love a good legend, or even a well-invented modern tale of gramarye." "We shall all be mystified by the author of 'Waverley,'" Helen said. "Already we have had Fergus's strange monitor, and the fortune told for Henry Bertram, and the Ravenswood prophecy, every one of them verified in the event." "The constant return to such machinery," remarked Randolph, "shows how readily it finds belief." "It is continually supported by coincidences," Rereworth answered. "Under striking circumstances, a man dreams of his absent friend. On the same night the latter dies. Granted in all the fulness of mystery. Now how many people were in the same relative position at the same time? How many dreamt or fancied the same thing? Hundreds? Thousands? Ay,--tens of thousands. Out of myriads of dreams one is verified. It proves the baselessness of the fabric." "One never hears of the dreams which do not come true," observed Helen. "No, Miss Trevethlan," Seymour said. "These visions and the sayings of fortune-tellers are tentative; like those famous miracles, the stoppage of which occasioned the well-known epigram-- 'De par le roi, defense à Dieu, De faire miracle en ce lieu.'" "There is an old dame, not far from us in the country," said Helen, "who I have heard, has threatened a violent death to half Penwith." "Dismal individual!" exclaimed Rereworth. "Our host complains," Helen continued, "of the decay of these old wonders. There's not a child in Hampstead, he says, but will cross the churchyard by night." "Ay," said Randolph, "the age is incredulous. For my part, I should like to be a visionary." Helen perceived that her brother spoke rather moodily. "The sun is setting," she said. "If we stay much longer, we shall have it dark enough to encounter some spectre ourselves. Let us go home."