was
particularly interesting.

For some time they had the conversation--rather serious it was--to
themselves; Randolph taking no part. But when it diverged to the
opera, and from thence to the preternatural drama, and from thence to
what Madame de Stael termed the _cote nocturne de la nature_, he
suddenly exclaimed:

"There is a strange fascination in these things. Presentiments seem to
be so often fulfilled."

"Because," Rereworth said, "they are generally felt where the result
is probable. What was more likely than that Henri Quatre should die by
the dagger of an assassin? These pretended second-sights, of all
kinds, must, in fact, be revelations. And to admit their truth, is to
depreciate the value of Revelation. I explain the whole thing with
four lines from Wordsworth:

'What strange and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
Ah, mercy! to myself I cried,
If Lucy should be dead!'"

"And suppose Lucy's wraith flitted by at the moment," said Helen,
smiling.

"All in white, uncommonly like a shred of mist," added Rereworth.

"Yet," Randolph urged, "there is something very picturesque in these
superstitions, if such they must be called."

"Certainly," said his friend. "I enjoy them, but I do not believe
them. I enjoy them more than those who believe and tremble. I love a
good legend, or even a well-invented modern tale of gramarye."

"We shall all be mystified by the author of 'Waverley,'" Helen said.
"Already we have had Fergus's strange monitor, and the fortune told
for Henry Bertram, and the Ravenswood prophecy, every one of them
verified in the event."

"The constant return to such machinery," remarked Randolph, "shows how
readily it finds belief."

"It is continually supported by coincidences," Rereworth answered.
"Under striking circumstances, a man dreams of his absent friend. On
the same night the latter dies. Granted in all the fulness of mystery.
Now how many people were in the same relative position at the same
time? How many dreamt or fancied the same thing? Hundreds? Thousands?
Ay,--tens of thousands. Out of myriads of dreams one is verified. It
proves the baselessness of the fabric."

"One never hears of the dreams which do not come true," observed
Helen.

"No, Miss Trevethlan," Seymour said. "These visions and the sayings
of fortune-tellers are tentative; like those famous miracles, the
stoppage of which occasioned the well-known epigram--

'De p