is inaccessible.

Silently, and always with that methodical step, she moves toward the
fireplace, and still a little further, until she stands on that eventful
spot where he had given up all claim to her, and thrown her back upon
herself. There is the very square on the carpet where she stood some
hours ago. There she stands now. To her right is the chair on which she
had leaned in great bitterness of spirit, trying to evoke help and
strength from the dead oak. Now, in her dreams, as if remembering that
past scene, she puts out her hands a little vaguely, a little blindly,
and, the chair not being where in her vision she believes it to be, she
gropes vaguely for it in a troubled fashion, the little trembling hands
moving nervously from side to side. It is a very, sad sight, the sadder
for, the mournful change that crosses the face of the sleeping girl. The
lips take a melancholy curve: the long lashes droop over the sightless
eyes, a long, sad sigh escapes her.

Dysart, his heart beating wildly, makes a movement toward her. Whether
the sound of his impetuous footstep disturbs her dream, or whether the
coming of her fingers in sudden contact with the edge of the table does
it, who can tell; she starts and wakens.

At first she stands as if not understanding, and then, with a terrified
expression in her now sentient eyes, looks hurriedly around her. Her
eyes meet Dysart's.

"Don't be frightened," begins he quickly.

"How did I come here?" interrupts she, in a voice panic-stricken. "I was
upstairs; I remember nothing. It was only a moment since that I----Was I
asleep?"

She gives a hasty furtive glance at the pretty loose white garment that
enfolds her.

"I suppose so," says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream,
and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in their
sleep."

"But I never. Oh! what is it?" says she, as if appealing to him to
explain herself to herself. "Was," faintly flushing, "any one else here?
Did any one see me?"

"No one. They are in bed; all asleep."

"And you?" doubtfully.

"I couldn't sleep," returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her.

"I must go," says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door; her
one thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill,
unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if,
for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself?--cannot know where
her mind will carry her when deadly sleep has