her
mother's being in Boston. He could not remember writing Mrs. Brand since
Madeline had been to Dr. Heidenhoff. He put his hand to his forehead,
then raised his head and looked around the room with an appealing stare.
Great God! why, that was a dream too! The last waves of sleep ebbed from
his brain and to his aroused consciousness the clear, hard lines of
reality dissevered themselves sharply from the vague contours of
dreamland. Yes, it was all a dream. He remembered how it all was now. He
had not seen Madeline since the evening before, when he had proposed
their speedy marriage, and she had called him back in that strange way to
kiss her. What a dream! That sleeping powder had done it--that, and the
book on electricity, and that talk on mental physiology which he had
overheard in the car the afternoon before. These rude materials, as
unpromising as the shapeless bits of glass which the kaleidoscope turns
into schemes of symmetrical beauty, were the stuff his dream was made of.

It was a strange dream indeed, such an one as a man has once or twice in
a lifetime. As he tried to recall it, already it was fading from his
remembrance. That kiss Madeline had called him back to give him the night
before; that had been strange enough to have been a part also of the
dream. What sweetness, what sadness, were in the touch of her lips. Ah!
when she was once his wife, he could contend at better advantage with her
depression of spirits, He would hasten their marriage. If possible, it
should take place that very week.

There was a knock at the door. The house-boy entered, gave him a note,
and went out. It was in Madeline's hand, and dated the preceding evening.
It read as follows:--

"You have but just gone away. I was afraid when I kissed you that you
would guess what I was going to do, and make a scene about it, and oh,
dear! I am so tired that I couldn't bear a scene. But you didn't think.
You took the kiss for a promise of what I was to be to you, when it only
meant what I might have been. Poor, dear boy! it was just a little stupid
of you not to guess. Did you suppose I would really marry you? Did you
really think I would let you pick up from the gutter a soiled rose to put
in your bosom when all the fields are full of fresh daisies? Oh, I love
you too well for that! Yes, dear, I love you. I've kept the secret pretty
well, haven't I? You see, loving you has made me more careful of your
honour than when in my first reckless