’No, no.  It is true.  I have seen and heard.  But yet, when a little time passes, you know? one wonders; one asks one’s self, was it a dream?’

‘That is what I fear,’ he said.  ’I, too, if life went on, might ask, notwithstanding all that has occurred to me, Was it a dream?’

‘M.  Lecamus, you will forgive me if I hurt you.  You saw—­her?’

’No.  Seeing—­what is seeing?  It is but a vulgar sense, it is not all; but I sat at her feet.  She was with me.  We were one, as of old——.’  A gleam of strange light came into his dim eyes.  ’Seeing is not everything, Madame.’

‘No, M. Lecamus.  I heard the dear voice of my little Marie.’

‘Nor is hearing everything,’ he said hastily.  ’Neither did she speak; but she was there.  We were one; we had no need to speak.  What is speaking or hearing when heart wells into heart?  For a very little moment, only for a moment, Madame Dupin.’

I put out my hand to him; I could not say a word.  How was it possible that she could go away again, and leave him so feeble, so worn, alone?

‘Only a very little moment,’ he said, slowly.  ’There were other voices—­but not hers.  I think I am glad it was in the spirit we met, she and I—­I prefer not to see her till—­after——­’

’Oh, M. Lecamus, I am too much of the world!  To see them, to hear them—­it is for this I long.’

’No, dear Madame.  I would not have it till—­after——.  But I must make haste, I must write, I hear the hum approaching——­’

I could not tell what he meant; but I asked no more.  How still everything was The people lay asleep on the grass, and I, too, was overwhelmed by the great quiet.  I do not know if I slept, but I dreamed.  I saw a child very fair and tall always near me, but hiding her face.  It appeared to me in my dream that all I wished for was to see this hidden countenance, to know her name; and that I followed and watched her, but for a long time in vain.  All at once she turned full upon me, held out her arms to me.  Do I need to say who it was?  I cried out in my dream to the good God, that He had done well to take her from me—­that this was worth it all.  Was it a dream?  I would not give that dream for rears of waking life.  Then I started and came back, in a moment, to the still morning sunshine, the sight of the men asleep, the roughness of the wall against which I leant.  Some one laid a hand on mine.  I opened my eyes, not knowing what it was—­if it might be my husband coming back, or her whom I had seen in my dream.  It was M. Lecamus.  He had risen up upon his knees—­his papers were all laid aside.  His eyes in those hollow caves were opened wide, and quivering with a strange light.  He had caught my wrist with his worn hand.  ‘Listen!’ he said; his voice fell to a whisper; a light broke over his face.  ‘Listen!’ he cried; ’they are coming.’  While he thus grasped my wrist, holding up his weak and wavering body in that strained attitude, the moments