It was Mrs. Clarkson, our nearest neighbor, rapidly approaching, as if the bearer of momentous tidings.

“She has come to tell me that Bob is drowned,” I gasped, as my heart almost ceased its beating.

I met her on the threshold, with a calmness of manner which belied the tumult within.  Greeting her courteously, I invited her inside, stating that my wife was absent.

“I thank you,” she said, “but it is not worth while.  I thought I ought to come over and tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I inquired, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Why, about the awful dream I had last night.”

I was able to smile faintly, and was partly prepared for what was coming.

“I am ready to hear it, Mrs. Clarkson.”

“Why, you know it was Friday night, and I never had a dream on a Friday night that didn’t come true—­never!  Where’s Bob?” she abruptly asked, peering around me, as if to learn whether he was in the hall.

“He’s off somewhere at play.”

“Oh, Mr. Havens, you’ll never see him alive again!”

Although startled in spite of myself, I was indignant.

“Have you any positive knowledge, Mrs. Clarkson, on the matter?”

“Certainly I have; didn’t I just tell you about my dream?”

“A fudge for your dream!” I exclaimed, impatiently; “I don’t believe in any such nonsense.”

“I pity you,” she said, though why I should be pitied on that account is hard to understand.

“But what was your dream?”

“I saw your Bob brought home drowned.  Oh, I can see him now,” she added, speaking rapidly, and making a movement as if to wring her hands; “his white face—­his dripping hair and clothes—­his half-closed eyes—­it was dreadful; it will break his mother’s heart—­”

“Mrs. Clarkson, did you come here to tell me that?”

“Why, of course I did; I felt it was my duty to prepare you—­”

“Good day,” I answered, sharply, closing the door and hastily entering my study.

She had given me a terrible shock.  My feelings were in a tumult difficult to describe.  My philosophy, my self-command, my hard sense and scepticism were scattered to the winds, I had fought against the awful fear, and was still fighting when my neighbor called; but her visit had knocked every prop from beneath me.

She had hardly disappeared when I was hurrying through the woods by the shortest route to the mill-pond.  I knew Bob had been there, and all that I expected to find was his white, ghastly body in the cold, cruel depths.

“Oh, my boy!” I wailed, “I am to blame for your death!  I never should have permitted you to run into such danger.  I should have gone with you and taught you to swim—­I can never forgive myself for this—­never, never, never.  It will break your mother’s heart—­mine is already broken—­”

“Pop, just watch me!”

Surely that was the voice of my boy!  I turned my head like a flash, and there he was, with his hands together over his head, and in the act of diving into the mill-pond.  Down he went with a splash, his head quickly reappearing, as he flirted the hair and water out of his eyes, and struck out for the middle of the pond.