“What was it about, daughter?” asked Mrs. Markland.

Fanny, whose mind was getting clearer and calmer, did not at once reply.

“You mentioned the name of Mr. Lyon,” said the mother.

“Did I?” Fanny’s voice expressed surprise.

“Yes.  Was it of him that you were dreaming?”

“I saw him in my dream,” was answered.

“Why were you afraid of him?”

“It was a very strange dream, mother—­very strange,” said Fanny, evidently not speaking from a free choice.

“I thought I was in our garden among the flowers.  And as I stood there, Mr. Lyon came in through the gate and walked up to me.  He looked just as he did when he was here; only it seemed that about his face and form there was even a manlier beauty.  Taking my hand, he led me to one of the garden chairs, and we sat down side by side.  And now I began to see a change in him.  His eyes, that were fixed upon mine, grew brighter and deeper, until it seemed as if I could look far down into their burning depths.  His breath came hot upon my face.  Suddenly, he threw an arm around me, and then I saw myself in the strong folds of a great serpent!  I screamed for help, and next found myself in your arms.  Oh! it was a strange and a fearful dream!”

“And it may not be all a dream, Fanny,” said Mrs. Markland, in a very impressive voice.

“Not all a dream, mother!” Fanny seemed startled at the words.

“No, dear.  Dreams are often merely fantastic.  But there come visions in sleep, sometimes, that are permitted as warnings, and truly represent things existing in real life.”

“I do not understand you, mother.”

“There is in the human mind a quality represented by the serpent, and also a quality represented by the dove.  When our Saviour said of Herod, ‘Go tell that fox,’ he meant to designate the man as having the quality of a fox.”

“But how does this apply to dreams?” asked Fanny.

“He who sends his angels to watch over and protect us in sleep, may permit them to bring before us, in dreaming images, the embodied form of some predominating quality in those whose association may do us harm.  The low, subtle selfishness of the sensual principle will then take its true form of a wily serpent.”

Fanny caught her breath once or twice, as these words fell upon her ears, and then said, in a deprecating voice—­

“Oh, mother!  Don’t! don’t!” And lifting her head from the bosom of her parent, she turned her face away, and buried it in the pillow.  As she did not move for the space of several minutes, Mrs. Markland thought it unwise to intrude other remarks upon her, believing that the distinct image she had already presented would live in her memory and do its work.  Soon after, she retired to her own room.  Half an hour later, and both were sleeping, in quiet unconsciousness.

CHAPTER XI.