with a rosy-red look about the finger nails."

"Did you notice how she was dressed, Francis?"

"No, mother."

"Did you notice the knife?"

"Yes. A large clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, as good as new."

My mother added the description of the knife. Also the year, month, day of
the week, and hour of the day when the Dream-Woman appeared to me at the
inn. That done, she locked up the paper in her desk.

"Not a word, Francis, to your aunt. Not a word to any living soul. Keep
your Dream a secret between you and me."

The weeks passed, and the months passed. My mother never returned to the
subject again. As for me, time, which wears out all things, wore out my
remembrance of the Dream. Little by little, the image of the Woman grew
dimmer and dimmer. Little by little, she faded out of my mind.

VII

The story of the warning is now told. Judge for yourself if it was a true
warning or a false, when you hear what happened to me on my next birthday.

In the Summer time of the year, the Wheel of Fortune turned the right way
for me at last. I was smoking my pipe one day, near an old stone quarry at
the entrance to our village, when a carriage accident happened, which gave
a new turn, as it were, to my lot in life. It was an accident of the
commonest kind--not worth mentioning at any length. A lady driving
herself; a runaway horse; a cowardly man-servant in attendance, frightened
out of his wits; and the stone quarry too near to be agreeable--that is
what I saw, all in a few moments, between two whiffs of my pipe. I stopped
the horse at the edge of the quarry, and got myself a little hurt by the
shaft of the chaise. But that didn't matter. The lady declared I had saved
her life; and her husband, coming with her to our cottage the next day,
took me into his service then and there. The lady happened to be of a dark
complexion; and it may amuse you to hear that my aunt Chance instantly
pitched on that circumstance as a means of saving the credit of the cards.
Here was the promise of the Queen of Spades performed to the very letter,
by means of "a dark woman," just as my aunt had told me. "In the time to
come, Francis, beware o' pettin' yer ain blinded intairpretation on the
cairds. Ye're ower ready, I trow, to murmur under dispensation of
Proavidence that ye canna fathom--like the Eesraelites of auld. I'll say
nae mair to ye. Mebbe when the mony's powering into yer poakets, ye'll no
forget yer aunt Chance, left like a