r knew you had dreams like this. But
are you sure they said it would cure your heart? Wasn't it for some
other reason?"

Pauline thought a moment, while Harry lit a cigarette and his father
worked his fingers down toward the mummy's right wrist.

"No," said Pauline, "I remember now. It wasn't to cure it at all. It
was to make it keep quiet."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Harry. "I never knew of any one making it flutter
much. I guess that was no dream."

Harry's father silenced him with an impatient gesture and turned to
Pauline, who was watching the wind make cat's paws on the polished
surface of the Hudson River.

"Go on, girl, go on. This is remarkable. I have read of this custom
in the Egyptian 'Book of the Dead'! Why did they want to keep your
heart quiet?"

"They said," continued Pauline, dreamily, "that after I died my spirit
was to be called before somebody--a God, I guess--who would judge
whether I was good enough for Heaven or not. That stone beetle was
placed on my heart to make it keep silent and not tell anything wicked
I might have done in life. Aren't dreams crazy things? Say, Harry,
there goes a hydroplane."

The two young people hung out the open window. The old man was
absorbed, too. He had at last worked his fingers along the entire
length of the mummy's right wrist. It was dry and hard as any mummy he
had ever seen, but it bore neither bracelet nor any ornament whatever.

"Well," he said, reluctantly, "it was all a dream, interesting but not
important. Like Polly's dream, it was just the echo of something I
have read or seen."

"Oh, pshaw! What are dreams, anyway?" muttered Harry, with
impatience.

"Dreams," said Pauline, authoritatively, "dreams are the bubbles which
rise to the surface of the mind when it cools down in sleep."

"Now," observed Harry, quietly, "when you and father are through
talking about mummies and dreams I wish you would consider something
that I am interested in. I'd like to know how soon you are going to
marry me?"

"Where did you get that definition of dreams, Polly?" asked the old
man.

"From my story," said Pauline, proudly.

Both men at once remembered that she had gone to find the magazine and
show them her first story. They eagerly demanded to see it.

Pauline picked up the Cosmopolitan from the floor. She had dropped it
in her agitation at finding her foster father had fainted. Sure enough,
there it was:

FIRE ON AN OCEAN LINER

By Paul