I own I was proud of Alicia when I led her into our little parlor at the appointed time.  She had never, to my mind, looked so beautiful as she looked that day.  I never noticed any other woman’s dress—­I noticed hers as carefully as if I had been a woman myself!  She wore a black silk gown, with plain collar and cuffs, and a modest lavender-colored bonnet, with one white rose in it placed at the side.  My mother, dressed in her Sunday best, rose up, all in a flutter, to welcome her daughter-in-law that was to be.  She walked forward a few steps, half smiling, half in tears—­she looked Alicia full in the face—­and suddenly stood still.  Her cheeks turned white in an instant; her eyes stared in horror; her hands dropped helplessly at her sides.  She staggered back, and fell into the arms of my aunt, standing behind her.  It was no swoon—­she kept her senses.  Her eyes turned slowly from Alicia to me.  “Francis,” she said, “does that woman’s face remind you of nothing?”.

Before I could answer, she pointed to her writing-desk on the table at the fireside.  “Bring it!” she cried, “bring it!”.

At the same moment I felt Alicia’s hand on my shoulder, and saw Alicia’s face red with anger—­and no wonder!

“What does this mean?” she asked.  “Does your mother want to insult me?”.

I said a few words to quiet her; what they were I don’t remember—­I was so confused and astonished at the time.  Before I had done, I heard my mother behind me.

My aunt had fetched her desk.  She had opened it; she had taken a paper from it.  Step by step, helping herself along by the wall, she came nearer and nearer, with the paper in her hand.  She looked at the paper—­she looked in Alicia’s face—­she lifted the long, loose sleeve of her gown, and examined her hand and arm.  I saw fear suddenly take the place of anger in Alicia’s eyes.  She shook herself free of my mother’s grasp.  “Mad!” she said to herself, “and Francis never told me!” With those words she ran out of the room.

I was hastening out after her, when my mother signed to me to stop.  She read the words written on the paper.  While they fell slowly, one by one, from her lips, she pointed toward the open door.

“Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid.  Flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it.  White arms, with a down upon them.  Little, lady’s hand, with a rosy-red look about the finger nails.  The Dream Woman, Francis!  The Dream Woman!”

Something darkened the parlor window as those words were spoken.  I looked sidelong at the shadow.  Alicia Warlock had come back!  She was peering in at us over the low window blind.  There was the fatal face which had first looked at me in the bedroom of the lonely inn.  There, resting on the window blind, was the lovely little hand which had held the murderous knife.  I had seen her before we met in the village.  The Dream Woman!  The Dream Woman!

XI