“I have had an unpleasant dream,” said Dawn, when they were alone, feeling that some explanation was due her friend, “and I must go home.”

“A dream!  O, fie, I never mind them.  Why, I once had a most frightful one about Ned.  He was away on a journey, and I dreamt that the boat caught fire, and every one on board was lost.  I even went so far as too see a messenger coming to tell me of the disaster.”

“But had not your mind been agitated through the day?”

“Why, I had read of some dreadful disasters, to be sure, and then I had retired at a late hour, after getting my mind wrought up about the liabilities of danger, which, of course, accounted for it-but was your dream about your father?”

“No.”

“Why must you go?  Do you think any one is in danger?  I think it was the result of the long ride, don’t you?

“I do not.  My dream was purely impressional, and outside of the effect of daily incidents.  Yes, I must go, Fannie, and right away.”

“In that case I shall ride home with you,” and she rang for the man to harness the horse.

Each busy with her own thoughts they rode in silence for a long distance, a silence which was only broken by Dawn’s exclamation of pleasure, as they came in sight of her home.

The next day she sat beside the bed of Ralph, whose snow-white face and attenuated form, showed how fast he was passing away.

He gazed long and tenderly into her face, as she sat there, their souls holding their last earthly communion.  His spirit was all aglow with life, and trust, while the shadow of separation rested on her, and dimmed her faith and vision.

“But for a little while, Dawn, and then we shall meet again; perhaps, to be united.”

How the words entered her heart, for now, under the cloud, she felt, O how keenly, that her state had hastened him home.  His was the vine-like nature that must cling to another, or die.  It was all dark to her then, and added to the pang of separation, was the thought of her cold indifference.  He, all gentleness and love, lie in rays of light; all her vision and life had gone into him to help him over the river.

“And you do not dread to go, Ralph?” she said, her voice choking with emotion.

“Fear?  I only long to do so; to be there, where all is peace and rest;” and the rapt, upturned gaze, confirmed his words.

“It will be always day there,” he continued; “none of these weary nights which have been so long and lonely-”

“O, Ralph, live; live for me.  I have been blind and wayward.  O, come back, and we will live for each other.”

“In my father’s house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you.”

The words sounded far, far away.

“Yes, we will live together above, not here.  God has so ordered it, my own Dawn.  I shall be light, perhaps, to you, even in that far-off land.  Nay, ’tis not ‘far’; ’t is here.  I shall dwell in your heart close-close-closer than ever.”