talked over in a village like this. You can judge by that paper, or
could, if it were before you, of the frame of mind in which I came here.
I was tired of the sullen indifference of the ocean and the babbling
egotism of the river, always hurrying along on its own private business.
I wanted the dreamy stillness of a large, tranquil sheet of water that
had nothing in particular to do, and would leave me to myself and my
thoughts. I had read somewhere about the place, and the old Anchor
Tavern, with its paternal landlord and motherly landlady and
old-fashioned household, and that, though it was no longer open as a
tavern, I could find a resting-place there early in the season, at least
for a few days, while I looked about me for a quiet place in which I
might pass my summer. I have found this a pleasant residence. By being
up early and out late I have kept myself mainly in the solitude which
has become my enforced habit of life. The season has gone by too swiftly
for me since my dream has become a vision."

The doctor was sitting with his hand round Maurice's wrist, three
fingers on his pulse. As he spoke these last words he noticed that the
pulse fluttered a little,--beat irregularly a few times; intermitted;
became feeble and thready; while his cheek grew whiter than the pallid
bloodlessness of his long illness had left it.

"No more talk, now," he said. "You are too tired to be using your voice.
I will hear all the rest another time."

The doctor had interrupted Maurice at an interesting point. What did
he mean by saying that his dream had become a vision? This is what the
doctor was naturally curious, and professionally anxious, to know. But
his hand was still on his patient's pulse, which told him unmistakably
that the heart had taken the alarm and was losing its energy under
the depressing nervous influence. Presently, however, it recovered its
natural force and rhythm, and a faint flush came back to the pale cheek.
The doctor remembered the story of Galen, and the young maiden whose
complaint had puzzled the physicians.

The next day his patient was well enough to enter once more into
conversation.

"You said something about a dream of yours which had become a vision,"
said the doctor, with his fingers on his patient's wrist, as before. He
felt the artery leap, under his pressure, falter a little, stop, then
begin again, growing fuller in its beat. The heart had felt the pull of
the bridle, but the spur had