The moonlight was darkened by clouds, there was low, rumbling thunder, followed by flashes of lightning, and a fitful rain was driven into the porch by the wayward wind, wetting Floy’s face and hands and dress. It was this that had woven itself in with her dream and awakened her to unpleasant reality. Dazed and wondering, she sprung to her feet, and it was several minutes before she could realize her position. Then it came to her that Maybelle had dared her to spend a night alone at Suicide Place, and she had vowed she would do it. She had come and fallen asleep on the porch and dreamed that exquisite dream that was so lovely until--Maybelle came. “How strange that I should dream of Maybelle’s lover--and dream that he was _mine_!” she murmured, wonderingly, as she hurried into the house out of the muttering storm. Fortunately she had brought some matches, and she knew that there was a lamp in the parlor, so letting herself in, she hurriedly lighted the lamp, throwing its feeble glare on the dark oak furniture of the long apartment. “Whew! what a musty old place!” she ejaculated, throwing open a window, heedless of the fine mist of rain that came blowing in, mixed with delicious fresh air and gusts of delicate perfume from great lilac-trees outside loaded with white and purple blooms. Then she uttered a cry of dismay and looked back half fearfully over her shoulder at a piano in a dark corner. The lid was closed, but from the keys were coming low, discordant sounds, as of music played by childish hands all ignorant of time or tune. It was terrible, that sound, and Floy, who had never known fear before, felt as if ice-cold water were trickling down her spine. Then a quick suspicion came to her, and running straight to the instrument, she threw back the lid. Several mice that, alarmed by her entrance, had been running up and down the keys, producing discordant notes, jumped out upon the floor and ran away into the dark corners with little frightened squeaks. Floy laughed aloud merrily: “Just as I suspected, after my first moment of terror at that sudden sound. But a cowardly person would have sworn it was a ghost playing the piano. I wonder if that discord was the sweet music I heard in my dream?” She threw herself into a large easy-chair cushioned in leather, and closed her eyes. “I am not the least bit afraid--not the least,” she declared aloud. “But I wish I could go to sleep again and dream the first half of that lovely dream.” But slumber refused to visit her eyes again. She felt preternaturally wide awake. Rising, she paced up and down the room, listening to the muttering of the storm outside, and the wild rain driving against the creaking old windows. Several old family portraits hung against the walls, and the eyes of those buried ancestors seemed to follow her up and down with grim curiosity as she moved to and fro.