Some one is with me, but I cannot see him, and we walk through the forest, pushing our way among the tangled vines that cling about our feet, and every now and then, between the giant tree-trunks, we catch glimpses of the noisy street.

At the end of this road there is a narrow turning, and when I come to it I am afraid, though I do not know why I am afraid.  It leads to a house that I once lived in when a child, and now there is some one waiting there who has something to tell me.

I turn to run away.  A Blackwall ’bus is passing, and I try to overtake it.  But the horses turn into skeletons and gallop away from me, and my feet are like lead, and the thing that is with me, and that I cannot see, seizes me by the arm and drags me back.

It forces me along, and into the house, and the door slams to behind us, and the sound echoes through the lifeless rooms.  I recognise the rooms; I laughed and cried in them long ago.  Nothing is changed.  The chairs stand in their places, empty.  My mother’s knitting lies upon the hearthrug, where the kitten, I remember, dragged it, somewhere back in the sixties.

I go up into my own little attic.  My cot stands in the corner, and my bricks lie tumbled out upon the floor (I was always an untidy child).  An old man enters—­an old, bent, withered man—­holding a lamp above his head, and I look at his face, and it is my own face.  And another enters, and he also is myself.  Then more and more, till the room is thronged with faces, and the stair-way beyond, and all the silent house.  Some of the faces are old and others young, and some are fair and smile at me, and many are foul and leer at me.  And every face is my own face, but no two of them are alike.

I do not know why the sight of myself should alarm me so, but I rush from the house in terror, and the faces follow me; and I run faster and faster, but I know that I shall never leave them behind me.

* * * * *

As a rule one is the hero of one’s own dreams, but at times I have dreamt a dream entirely in the third person—­a dream with the incidents of which I have had no connection whatever, except as an unseen and impotent spectator.  One of these I have often thought about since, wondering if it could not be worked up into a story.  But, perhaps, it would be too painful a theme.

I dreamt I saw a woman’s face among a throng.  It is an evil face, but there is a strange beauty in it.  The flickering gleams thrown by street lamps flash down upon it, showing the wonder of its evil fairness.  Then the lights go out.

I see it next in a place that is very far away, and it is even more beautiful than before, for the evil has gone out of it.  Another face is looking down into it, a bright, pure face.  The faces meet and kiss, and, as his lips touch hers, the blood mounts to her cheeks and brow.  I see the two faces again.  But I cannot tell where they are or how long a time has passed.  The man’s face has grown a little older, but it is still young and fair, and when the woman’s eyes rest upon it there comes a glory into her face so that it is like the face of an angel.  But at times the woman is alone, and then I see the old evil look struggling back.