and I--It's
certainly very queer!"

Jack grinned. "Go and put on your habit," he replied; "the horses will
be here in ten minutes. And remember that when you have accounted for
her disappearance, her presence still remains to be explained. Or
perhaps you think Wah Sing produced her from his sleeve?"

I laughed. Wah Sing was our Chinese cook, and more apt, I thought, to
put something up his sleeve than to take anything out.

"I suppose I _was_ dreaming," I said, "though I could almost as well
believe I had only dreamed our marriage."

"Or rather," observed Jack, "that our marriage had only dreamed us."

II.--SHADOWS

About a week later I received a letter from Aunt Agnes. Among other
things, chiefly relating to New York's slums, she said:

"I am in need of rest, and if you and Jack could put up with me for a
few days, I believe I should like to get back to the old place. As you
know, I have always dreaded a return there, but lately I seem somehow to
have lost that dread. I feel that the time has come for me to be there
again, and I am sure you will not mind me."

Most assuredly we would not mind her. We sat in the moonlight that night
on the veranda, Jack swinging my hammock slowly, and talked of Aunt
Agnes. The moon silvered the waving alfalfa, and sifted through the
twisted vines that fenced us in, throwing intricate and ever-changing
patterns on the smooth flooring. There was a hum of insects in the air,
and the soft wind ever and anon blew a fleecy cloud over the moon,
dimming for a moment her serene splendor.

"Who knows?" said Jack, lighting another cigar. "This may be a
turning-point in Aunt Agnes's life, and she may once more be something
like the sunny, happy girl your mother describes. She is beautiful, and
she is yet young. It may mean the beginning of a new life for her."

"Yes," I answered. "It isn't right that her life should always be
shadowed by that early sorrow. She is so lovely, and could be so happy.
Now that she has taken the first step, there is no reason why she
shouldn't go on."

"We'll do what we can to help her," responded my husband. "Let me fix
your cushions, darling; they have slipped." He rose to do so, and
suddenly stood still, facing the further end of the veranda. His
expression was so peculiar that I turned, following the direction of his
eyes, even before his smothered exclamation of "Silvia, look there!"
reached me.

Standing in the fluttering moonlight and shadows wa