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"Mona, what is it? Mona! Mona! What in the world is the matter? Good
heavens!"

And Grace Suffield, startled from her bed by the loud ringing cry,
stands, candle in hand, within her cousin's room, shaking with
apprehension and alarm. And small blame to her.

For Mona is standing at the open window. The shutters are thrown back,
and her tall, white-clad form, half shrouded in her streaming hair, is
framed against the oblong patch of bright stars. And she is gazing out
upon the midnight waste, with eyes dilated in a wild, wistful, anguished
look, as though she were striving to pierce the darkness and distance,
and would give her life for the power to do so. It was a weird sight,
and chilled Grace Suffield with an eerie and awesome creep, for it was
evident that, in spite of her erect attitude and open eyes, Mona was not
awake.

What was she to do? Mona had never been given to sleep-walking. Some
appalling and powerful dream must have disturbed her. To wake her might
be dangerous--the shock would be too great. But in this dilemma Mona
turned round suddenly, and her eyes catching the glare of the light, she
shut them. Then passing her hand over them two or three times she
opened them once more--and beyond a slight start no sign was there that
this was other than an ordinary awakening.

"Is that you, Grace!" she said wonderingly. "Why, what's wrong? Any of
the children ill?"

"No, dear. But you--I thought I heard you call for something."

Thick and clear the waves of recollection flowed back upon Mona's mind.
She started, shuddered, and again that scared look came into her eyes,
but she quickly recovered herself.

"It was more than a dream," she said, speaking half to herself. "Yes,
it was not a mere dream--it was a warning. Grace, _he_ has been in
danger, and I have warned him. Yes, I have, and I feel confident now.
He is safe. My warning has been heard."

Had it? Had the temporarily released soul, hovering above its
slumbering tenement, the power to bridge over such material matter as
distance and space? Was it given to the dream-voice, winged by the
will-power of the strength and despair of love, to dart forth through
the midnight spheres until it should thrill upon the unconscious ears,
which a moment later might be beyond hearing aught again in this world?
Who can say?

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A VOICE THROUGH THE NIGHT.

Having re