dead bough so delicately. The man’s clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected. His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept, his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his features twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little groan, gruesome to hear and then talk to some woman. His features twitched as if with pain, and he moaned slightly.
The lips opened in a grimace showing the yellow teeth behind the beard. Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight-haunted woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke with a sharp “Ah!”—he looked round in consternation, then sinking down again wearily, said, “I was dreaming again.”
“You don’t seem to have nice dreams,” said George.
The man winced, then looking at us said, almost sneering:
“And who are you?”
We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at us.
“So!” he said at last, wearily, “I do dream. I do, I do.” He sighed heavily. Then he added, sarcastically; “Were you interested?”
“No,” said I. “But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you want?”
“You want me to clear out,” he said.
