The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1886-03-06

look up from the book she was reading,
half dreamily asking herself what visitor
could be coming so late She heard steps
and voices, door shutting, then Ambrose
opened that of the drawing-room where she
was sitting and came up to her, his wrinkled
old face all flushed and beaming.
at was me that frightened you so that
day, ma'am," he began. "It's right it
should be me again. But it's himself
his very own self this time. You may
believe me indeed"
Anne started to her feet. She felt her
self growing pale. She trembled SO that
she could scarcely stand.
"Where is he ?" she said "You have
put him into the library anywhere but
there !"
Gle would have it so, ma'am. He said
he would explain to you. Oh, go to him,
ma'am! You'll see it'll be all right
Anne made her way to the library. But
at the door a strange tremor seized her.
She could scarcely control herself to open
it. Yes-there again on the hearthrug
stood the tall figure she had so often pic
tured thus to herself She trembled and
all but fell, but his voice-his own hearty
living voice-speaking to her in accents
tenderer and deeper than ever heretofore
reassured her and dispersed at once the
fear that had hovered about her
"Anne, my dear Anne 1t is l myself
Don't look so frightened, and in a moment
he had led her forward, and stood with his
hand on her shoulder, looking with his
kind, earnest eyes into hers.
eyes," he said, dreamily, '.it was just
thus Oh, how often l have thought Of
this momentl Anne, if | am mistaken for
give my presumption-but l can't think [
am, Anne, my darling, you do love me?'
There was no need of words. Anne
hid her face on his shoulder for one happy
moment. Then, amid the tears that would
come, she told him all-all she had suffer
ed and hoped and feared-her love and her
agony of humiliation when she thought it
was not returned; her terrible grief when
she thought him dead-and yet the conso-
lation of believing herself to have been his
last thought in life
$50 you shall be-my first and my last,
he answered "My Anne-my very ownl'
And then she told him more of the
strange story we know. He listened with
intense eagerness but without testifying
much surprise, far less incredulity
al anticipated something of the kind"
he said, after moment or two of silence.
at is very strange. Listen, Anne; at the
time, the exact time so far as | can rough
ly calculate, at which you thought you saw
me l was dreaming of you. 1t was be-
tween 4 and o'clock in the afternoon,
was it not?'
Anne bowed her head in assent.
''That would have made it about 6
o'clock where we then were" he went on
consideringly. eyes; it was about Z when
| awoke | had lain down that afternoon
with frightful headache. Poor Graham
had died shortly before midnight the night
before, and 1 had not been able to sleep,
though 1 was very tired 1 dare say was
not altogether in what the doctors call
normal condition, from the physical fatigue
and the effect generally of having watched
him die. was feeling less earthly, if you
can understand, than one usually does. 1t
is-to me at least-impossible to watch a
death-bed without wondering about itall-
about what comes after-intensely. And
Graham was so good, so patient, and re-
signed and trustful, though it was awfully
hard for him to die. He had every reason
to wish to live. Well, Anne, when l fell
asleep that afternoon 1 at once began dream
ing about you. 1 had been thinking about
you great deal, constantly almost, ever
since we set sail. For, just before starting
| had got hint that this appointment
have not told you about it yet, but that will
keep; have accepted it, as you see by my
being here-I got a hint that it would pro-
1ably be offered me, and that if | didn't
mind paying my passage back almost as
soon as I got out, l had better make up my
mind to accept it. felt that it hung upon
you, and yet did not see how to find out
what you would say without without
,isking what 1 had-your sisterly friend
ihip 1t came into my head just as was
alling asleep that l would write to you
rom the Cape and tell you of Graham's
leath to avoid any mistaken report, and
hat might in my letter somehow feel my
way little. This was all in my mind, and
Is fell asleep it got confused so that did
lot know afterward clearly where to sepa-
ate it from my dream.
"And what was the dream ?" asked Anne
,reathlessly.
"Almost precisely what you saw" he
eplied "I fancied myself here rushing
Upstairs to the library in my haste to see
tell you was not dead, and to
SIX you if you would have cared much had
t been SO. saw all the scene-the hall,
he staircase already lighted; this room, and
rou coming in at the door with a half-
half-eager look in your face.
Then it grew confused. l next remember
tanding here beside you on the hearthrug
With my hand on your shoulder-thus
Anne-and gazing into your eyes, and
struggling to ask you what
wanted so terribly TO know. But the words
would not come, and the agony seemed to
wake me. Yet with the awaking came
he answer. Something had answered me;
said to myself, Yes, Anne does love
me- And Anne remembered the strange
ceiling of joy which had come to her even
n the first bitterness of her grief. She
urned to the hand that still lay on her
houlder and kissed it. "0h, Kenneth
he said, ''how thankful we should bel
3ut how strange to think that we owe all
o dream Was it dream, Kenneth p
He shook his head aYou must ask
hat of wiser people than l." he said. II
oppose it was
'fBut how could it have been dream?"
aid Anne again "You forget, Kenneth,
ambrose saw you too"
''Though l did not see him, nor even
hink of him. Yes, that makes it even
lore incomprehensible 1t must have
cen the old fellow devotion to you, Anne,
hat made him sympathize with you some
ow."
II am glad he saw you" said Annie.
| should prefer to think it more than
ream. And there is always more evidence
d favor of any story of the kind if it has
cen witnessed by two. But there is one
ther thing 1 want to ask you. 1t has
truck me since that you answered me