on when she thought it was not returned--her terrible grief
when she thought him dead; and yet the consolation of believing herself
to have been his last thought in life.

"So you shall be--my first and my last," he answered. "My Anne--my very
own."

And then she told him more of the strange story we know. He listened
with intense eagerness, but without testifying much surprise, far less
incredulity.

"I anticipated something of the kind," he said, after a moment or two of
silence. "It is very strange. Listen, Anne: at the time, the exact time,
so far as I can roughly calculate, at which you thought you saw me, I
was _dreaming_ of you. It was between four and five o'clock in the
afternoon, was it not?"

Anne bowed her head in assent.

"That would have made it about six o'clock where we then were," he went
on consideringly. "Yes; it was about seven when I awoke. I had lain down
that afternoon with a frightful headache. Poor Graham had died shortly
before midnight the night before, and I had not been able to sleep,
though I was very tired. I daresay I was not altogether in what the
doctors call a normal condition, from the physical fatigue and the effect
generally of having watched him die. I was feeling less _earthly_, if you
can understand, than one usually does. It is--to me at least--_impossible_
to watch a deathbed without wondering about it all--about what comes
after--intensely. And Graham was so good, so patient and resigned and
trustful, though it was awfully hard for him to die. He had every reason
to wish to live. Well, Anne, when I fell asleep that afternoon I at
once began dreaming about you. I had been thinking about you a great
deal, constantly almost, ever since we set sail. For, just before
starting, I had got a hint that this appointment--I have not told you
about it yet, but that will keep; I have accepted it, as you see by my
being here--I got a hint that it would probably be offered me, and that
if I didn't mind paying my passage back almost as soon as I got out, I
had better make up my mind to accept it. I felt that it hung upon _you_,
and yet I did not see how to find out what you would say without--without
risking what I _had_--your sisterly friendship. It came into my head
just as I was falling asleep that I would write to you from the Cape,
and tell you of Graham's death to avoid any mistaken report, and that
I might in my letter somehow feel my way a little. This was all in my
mind, and as