terpiece of wood-carving, picked out and inlaid with gold. The sight
of a semi-grand piano, which stood open, brought me back to the
realization that I was living in modern times, and not in a dream of
the Arabian Nights; while the Paris Figaro and the London Times--both
of that day's issue--lying on a side-table, demonstrated the nineteenth
century to me with every possible clearness. There were flowers
everywhere in this apartment--in graceful vases and in gilded osier
baskets--and a queer lop-sided Oriental jar stood quite near me, filled
almost to overflowing with Neapolitan violets. Yet it was winter in
Paris, and flowers were rare and costly.

Looking about me, I perceived an excellent cabinet photograph of
Raffaello Cellini, framed in antique silver; and I rose to examine it
more closely, as being the face of a friend. While I looked at it, I
heard the sound of an organ in the distance playing softly an old
familiar church chant. I listened. Suddenly I bethought myself of the
three dreams that had visited me, and a kind of nervous dread came upon
me. This Heliobas,--was I right after all in coming to consult him? Was
he not perhaps a mere charlatan? and might not his experiments upon me
prove fruitless, and possibly fatal? An idea seized me that I would
escape while there was yet time. Yes! ... I would not see him to-day,
at any rate; I would write and explain. These and other disjointed
thoughts crossed my mind; and yielding to the unreasoning impulse of
fear that possessed me, I actually turned to leave the room, when I saw
the crimson velvet portiere dividing again in its regular and graceful
folds, and Heliobas himself entered.

I stood mute and motionless. I knew him well; he was the very man I had
seen in my third and last dream; the same noble, calm features; the
same commanding presence; the same keen, clear eyes; the same
compelling smile. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance
except his stately bearing and handsome countenance; his dress was that
of any well-to-do gentleman of the present day, and there was no
affectation of mystery in his manner. He advanced and bowed
courteously; then, with a friendly look, held out his hand. I gave him
mine at once.

"So you are the young musician?" he said, in those warm mellifluous
accents that I had heard before and that I so well remembered. "My
friend Raffaello Cellini has written to me about you. I hear you have
been suffering from physical de