asleep in Westchester; you are here in your own house. You mustn't tremble so. Give me your hand a moment."
She laid her hand in his obediently; it shook like a leaf. He held it firmly, touching the fluttering pulse.
"You are certainly no spirit," he said, smiling; "your hand is warm and yielding. Ghosts don't have hands like that, you know."
Her fingers lay in his, quite passive now, but the pulse quickened.
"The explanation of it all is this," he said: "You have had a temporary suspension of consciousness, during which time you, without being aware of what you were doing, came to town from Willow Brook. You believe you went to the dance at the Hunt Club, but probably you did not. Instead, during a lapse of consciousness, you went to the station, took a train to town, came straight to your own house—" He hesitated.
"Yes," she said, "I have a key to the door. Here it is." She drew it from the bosom of her gown; he took it triumphantly.
"You simply awoke to consciousness while you were groping for the matches. That is all there is to it; and you need not be frightened at all!" he announced.
"No, not frightened," she said, shaking her head, "only—only I wonder how I can get back. I've tried to fix my mind on my ring—on the Sign of Venus—I cannot seem to—"
"But that's nonsense!" he protested, cheerfully. "That ring has nothing to do with the matter."
"But it brought me here! Truly I am asleep in my hammock. Won't you believe it?"
"No; and you mustn't, either," he said, impatiently. "Why, just now I explained to you—"
"I know," she said, looking down at the ring on her hand, "but you are wrong—truly you are."
"I am not wrong," he said, laughing. "It was only a dream—the dance, the return, the hammock,—all these were parts of a dream so intensely real that you cannot shake it off at once."
"Then—then who was that we saw in the mirror?"
"Let us try it again," he said, confidently. She suffered him to lead her again to the mirror; again they peered into its glimmering depths, heads close together.
A second's breathless silence, then she caught his hand in both of hers with a low cry; for the strange profile was slowly turning toward them a face of amazing beauty—her own face transfigured, radiantly glorified.
"My soul!" she gasped, and would have fallen at his feet had he not held her and supported her to the stairs, where she sank down, hiding her face in her arms.
As for him, he was terribly shaken; he strove to speak, to reason with her, with himself, but a stupor chained body and mind, and he only leaned there on the newel-post, vaguely aware of his own helplessness.
Far away in the night the bells of a church began striking the hour—one, two, three, four. Presently the distant rattle of a wagon sounded. The city stirred in its slumbers.
He found himself bending beside her, her passive hands in his once more, and he was saying: "As a matter of fact, all this is quite capable of an explanation. Don't be distressed—please don't be frightened or sad. We've both had some sort of hallucination, that's all—really that is all."
"I am not frightened now," she said, dreamily. "I am quite sure that—that I am not dead. I am only asleep in my hammock. When I awake—"
Again, in spite of himself, he shivered.
"Will you do one more thing for me?" she asked.
"Yes—a million."
"Only one. It is unreasonable, it is perhaps silly—and I have no right to ask—"
"Ask it," he begged.
"Then—then, will you go to Willow Brook? Now?"
"Now?" he repeated, blankly.
"Yes." She looked down at him with the shadow of a smile touching lips and eyes. "I am asleep in the hammock; I sleep very, very soundly—and very, very late into the morning. They may not find me there for a long while. So would you mind going to Willow Brook to awaken me?"
"I—I—but you do not expect me to
