recall this part of her dream.

"You have mentioned it already," she said. There is no need for
me to go over the words again. Tell me one thing--when _you_ were
at the summer-house, did you wait a little on the path to the
door before you went in?"

I _had_ waited, surprised by my first view of the woman writing
in my book. Having answered her to this effect, I asked what she
had done or dreamed of doing at the later moment when I entered
the summer-house.

"I did the strangest things," she said, in low, wondering tones.
"If you had been my brother, I could hardly have treated you more
familiarly. I beckoned to you to come to me. I even laid my hand
on your bosom. I spoke to you as I might have spoken to my oldest
and dearest friend. I said, 'Remember me. Come to me.' Oh, I was
so ashamed of myself when I came to my senses again, and
recollected it. Was there ever such familiarity--even in a
dream--between a woman and a man whom she had only once seen, and
then as a perfect stranger?"

"Did you notice how long it was," I asked, "from the time when
you lay down on the bed to the time when you found yourself awake
again?"

"I think I can tell you," she replied. "It was the dinner-time of
the house (as I said just now) when I went upstairs. Not long
after I had come to myself I heard a church clock strike the
hour. Reckoning from one time to the other, it must have been
quite three hours from the time when I first lay down to the time
when I got up again."

Was the clew to the mysterious disappearance of the writing to be
found here?

Looking back by the light of later discoveries, I am inclined to
think that it was. In three hours the lines traced by the
apparition of her had vanished. In three hours she had come to
herself, and had felt ashamed of the familiar manner in which she
had communicated with me in her sleeping state. While she had
trusted me in the trance--trusted me because her spirit was then
free to recognize my spirit--the writing had remained on the
page. When her waking will counteracted the influence of her
sleeping will, the writing disappeared. Is this the explanation?
If it is not, where is the explanation to be found?

We walked on until we reached that part of the Canongate street
in which she lodged. We stopped at the door.

CHAPTER XI.

THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.

I LOOKED at the house. It was an inn, of no great size, but of
respectable appearance. If I was to be of any use to her that
night, the time had come to speak of other subjects than the
subject of dreams.

"After all that you have told me," I said, "I will not ask you to
admit me any further into your confidence until we meet again.
Only let me hear how I can relieve your most pressing anxieties.
What are your plans? Can I do anything to help them before you go
to rest to-night?"

She thanked me warmly, and hesitated, looking up the street and
down the street in evident embarrassment what to say next.

"Do you propose staying in Edinburgh?" I asked.

"Oh no! I don't wish to remain in Scotland. I want to go much
further away. I think I should do better in London; at some
respectable milliner's, if I could be properly recommended. I am
quick at my needle, and I understand cutting out. Or I could keep
accounts, if--if anybody would trust me."

She stopped, and looked at me doubtingly, as if she felt far from
sure, poor soul, of winning my confidence to begin with. I acted
on that hint, with the headlong impetuosity of a man who was in
love.

"I can give you exactly the recommendation you want," I said,
"whenever you like. Now, if you would prefer it."

Her charming features brightened with pleasure. "Oh, you are
indeed a friend to me!" she said, impulsively. Her face clouded
again--she saw my proposal in a new light. "Have I any right,"
she asked, sadly, "to accept what you offer me?"

"Let me give you the letter," I answered, "and you can decide for
yourself whether you will use it or not."

I put her arm again in mine, and entered the inn.

She shrunk back in alarm. What would the landlady think if she
saw her lodger enter the house at night in company with a
stranger, and that stranger a gentleman? The landlady appeared as
she made the objection. Reckless what I said or what I did, I
introduced myself as her relative, and asked to be shown into a
quiet room in which I could write a letter. After one sharp


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