“You heard him announce our engagement.”

“I can’t understand!” sighed Alicia.  “Oh, Sophy, sometimes I could wish we had never come to Hynds House!”

“It had to be,” I said dully.

“And—­The Author?” ventured Alicia, after a pause.  “He thinks you belong to him by right of discovery.  He doesn’t accept Mr. Jelnik’s announcement as final.  He told me this morning that his offer stood until you actually married somebody else.  The Author isn’t used to being crossed, and he doesn’t quite know how to take it.”

“It is on the knees of the gods,” I repeated, weariedly.

Came a gentle tap at the door, and following it the fresh, kind face of Miss Emmeline.

“Are you trying to rival the Seven Sleepers?” she asked, gaily, and laid a bunch of carnations on my knees by way of offering.  “Judge Gatchell sent them to me this morning,” she explained, with an October blush.  For the sallow old jurist had taken so great a liking to the Boston reincarnation of a Theban vestal, and was in consequence so rejuvenated, himself, that all Hyndsville was holding up the hands of astonishment and biting the finger of conjecture.

“My dears,” said Miss Emmeline, presently, “I want to tell you the singular dream I had last night, or rather this morning.  I was quite tired, for I do not often dance,” admitted Miss Emmeline, who had nevertheless danced with a zest that rivaled that of the youngest, “so I must have fallen asleep immediately upon retiring.  Well, then, I dreamed that all those old Hyndses whose portraits are down-stairs were gathered together in the library, to bid farewell to a member of the family who was going away—­that beautiful creature who disappeared and was never afterward found.  Now, aren’t dreams absurd?  She was setting out upon a long journey dressed in a low-necked, short-sleeved brown silk dress trimmed with quantities of fine lace.  And for goodness’ sake what do you think that woman wore over it for a traveling-cloak?  Nothing more or less than a gray army blanket, a corner of which was thrown over her head like a hood and quite concealed her face.

“She moved away slowly, holding her blanket as an Indian does.  And as she passed me by—­for I was standing in the door—­a fold slipped, and what do you think she was holding to her breast?  A pearl-and-silver crucifix.  You can’t imagine how I felt when I saw it!”

I knew how I felt when I had seen it, but that I couldn’t tell Miss Emmeline.  Instead, I held the carnations to my face, to hide my whitening lips.  For once the Boston lady had come into actual contact with the occult and the unknown.

“She went out by the back door,” continued Miss Emmeline, “and I ran to the window and saw her gray-blanketed figure disappear down the lane, behind the hedge that separates Mr. Jelnik’s grounds from yours.  And all the Hyndses called:  ‘Jessamine, good-by!’ But she never turned her head once, nor spoke, nor gave a sign that she heard.  She just went, leaving me staring after her.  I stared so hard that I woke myself up.  Now, my dears, wasn’t that an odd sort of dream?  And so vivid, too!  Why, I can hear those voices yet!”