Scarcely a moment since the reception of her husband’s letter, enclosing one for Fanny, was the fact that Mr. Lyon had made advances toward her daughter—­yet far too young to have her mind bewildered by love’s mazy dream—­absent from her mind.  It haunted even her sleeping hours.  And the more she thought of it, the more deeply it disturbed her.  As an interesting, and even brilliant, companion, she had enjoyed his society.  With more than usual interest had she listened to his varied descriptions of personages, places, and events; and she had felt more than a common admiration for his high mental accomplishments.  But, whenever she imagined him the husband of her pure-hearted child, it seemed as if a heavy hand lay upon her bosom, repressing even respiration itself.

Enough was crowding into the mind of this excellent woman to drive slumber from her eyelids.  The room adjoining was occupied by Fanny, and, as the communicating door stood open, she was aware that the sleep of her child was not sound.  Every now and then she turned restlessly in her bed; and sometimes muttered incoherently.  Several times did Mrs. Markland raise herself and lean upon her elbow, in a listening attitude, as words, distinctly spoken, fell from the lips of her daughter.  At last the quickly uttered sentence, “Mother! mother! come!” caused her to spring from the bed and hurry to her child.

“What is it, Fanny?  What has frightened you?” she said, in a gentle, encouraging voice.  But Fanny only muttered something incoherent, in her sleep, and turned her face to the wall.

For several minutes did Mrs. Markland sit upon the bedside, listening, with an oppressed feeling, to the now calm respiration of her child.  The dreams which had disturbed her sleep, seemed to have given place to other images.  The mother was about returning to her own pillow, when Fanny said, in a voice of sad entreaty—­

“Oh!  Mr. Lyon!  Don’t! don’t!”

There was a moment or two of breathless stillness, and then, with a sharp cry of fear, the sleeper started up, exclaiming—­

“Mother! father!  Oh, come to me!  Come!”

“Fanny, my child!” was the mother’s instant response, and the yet half-dreaming girl fell forward into her arms, which were closed tightly around her.  What a strong thrill of terror was in every part of her frame!

“Dear Fanny!  What ails you?  Don’t tremble so!  You are safe in my arms.  There, love, nothing shall harm you.”

“Oh, mother! dear mother! is it you?” half sobbed the not yet fully-awakened girl.

“Yes, love.  You are safe with your mother.  But what have you been dreaming about?”

“Dreaming!” Fanny raised herself from her mother’s bosom, and looked at her with a bewildered air.

“Yes, dear—­dreaming.  This is your own room, and you are on your own bed.  You have only been frightened by a fearful dream.”

“Only a dream!  How thankful I am!  Oh! it was terrible!”