brother to your heart. I now _know_ that it
came to you as a timely warning to take him closer still. Does this help
to satisfy you that I, too, am standing hopefully on the brink of a new
life, and that while we live, brother, your love and mine will never be
divided again?"

They shook hands in silence. Allan was the first to recover himself. He
answered in the few words of kindly assurance which were the best words
that he could address to his friend.

"I have heard all I ever want to hear about the past," he said; "and
I know what I most wanted to know about the future. Everybody says,
Midwinter, you have a career before you, and I believe that everybody is
right. Who knows what great things may happen before you and I are many
years older?"

"Who _need_ know?" said Midwinter, calmly. "Happen what may, God is
all-merciful, God is all-wise. In those words your dear old friend once
wrote to me. In that faith I can look back without murmuring at the
years that are past, and can look on without doubting to the years that
are to come."

He rose, and walked to the window. While they had been speaking together
the darkness had passed. The first light of the new day met him as he
looked out, and rested tenderly on his face.

APPENDIX.

NOTE--My readers will perceive that I have purposely left them, with
reference to the Dream in this story, in the position which they would
occupy in the case of a dream in real life: they are free to interpret
it by the natural or the supernatural theory, as the bent of their own
minds may incline them. Persons disposed to take the rational view may,
under these circumstances, be interested in hearing of a coincidence
relating to the present story, which actually happened, and which in
the matter of "extravagant improbability" sets anything of the same kind
that a novelist could imagine at flat defiance.

In November, 1865, that is to say, when thirteen monthly parts of
"Armadale" had been published, and, I may add, when more than a year and
a half had elapsed since the end of the story, as it now appears, was
first sketched in my notebook--a vessel lay in the Huskisson Dock at
Liverpool which was looked after by one man, who slept on board, in the
capacity of shipkeeper. On a certain day in the week this man was found
dead in the deck-house. On the next day a second man, who had taken his
place, was carried dying to the Northern Hospital. On the third day a
third ship-keepe