he had wakened and, not feeling like going to sleep
again, thought she might as well get up.

"I had such a funny dream last night," she said. "I dreamed that I heard
a voice calling me from away down in Uncle Stephen's Walk--'Sara, Sara,
Sara,' it kept calling. I didn't know whose it was, and yet it seemed
like a voice I knew. I wakened up while it was calling, and it seemed so
real I could hardly believe it was a dream. It was bright moonlight,
and I felt just like getting up and going out to the orchard. But I knew
that would be silly and of course I didn't go. But I kept on wanting to
and I couldn't sleep any more. Wasn't it queer?"

When Uncle Alec had gone I proposed a saunter to the farther end of the
orchard, where I had left a book the preceding evening. A young mom was
walking rosily on the hills as we passed down Uncle Stephen's Walk,
with Paddy trotting before us. High overhead was the spirit-like blue of
paling skies; the east was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with
auroral crimsonings; just above it was one milk-white star of morning,
like a pearl on a silver sea. A light wind of dawn was weaving an orient
spell.

"It's lovely to be up as early as this, isn't it?" said the Story Girl.
"The world seems so different just at sunrise, doesn't it? It makes me
feel just like getting up to see the sun rise every morning of my
life after this. But I know I won't. I'll likely sleep later than ever
tomorrow morning. But I wish I could."

"The Awkward Man and Miss Reade are going to have a lovely day for their
wedding," I said.

"Yes, and I'm so glad. Beautiful Alice deserves everything good. Why,
Bev--why, Bev! Who is that in the hammock?"

I looked. The hammock was swung under the two end trees of the Walk. In
it a man was lying, asleep, his head pillowed on his overcoat. He was
sleeping easily, lightly, and wholesomely. He had a pointed brown beard
and thick wavy brown hair. His cheeks were a dusky red and the lashes of
his closed eyes were as long and dark and silken as a girl's. He wore a
light gray suit, and on the slender white hand that hung down over the
hammock's edge was a spark of diamond fire.

It seemed to me that I knew his face, although assuredly I had never
seen him before. While I groped among vague speculations the Story Girl
gave a queer, choked little cry. The next moment she had sprung over the
intervening space, dropped on her knees by the hammock, and flung her
arms about the