d along, they came to a place where the paths
forked, and here he stooped to kiss her. Already he could feel the
thrill of her embrace, when she was swept from him by an unseen force,
and carried down the path before them, leaving him rooted where he
was. But still he could trace her progress as she went, wringing her
hands in sorrow; and presently he saw the form of Lady Bellamy, robed
as an Egyptian sorceress, and holding a letter in her hand, which she
offered to Angela, whispering in her ear. She took it, and then in a
second the letter turned to a great snake, with George's head, that
threw its coils around her and struck at her with its fangs. Next, the
darkness of night rushed down upon the scene, and out of the darkness
came wild cries and mocking laughter, and the choking sounds of death.
And his senses left him.

When sight and sense came back, he dreamt that he was still walking
down a wooded lane, but the foliage of the overhanging trees was of a
richer green. The air was sweet with the scent of unknown flowers,
beautiful birds flitted around him, and from far-off came the murmur
of the sea. And as he travelled, broken-hearted, a fair woman with a
gentle voice stood by his side, and kissed and comforted him, till at
length he grew weary of her kisses, and she left him, weeping, and he
went on his way alone, seeking his lost Angela. And then at length the
path took a sudden turn, and he stood on the shore of an illimitable
ocean, over which brooded a strange light, as where

"The quiet end of evening smiles
Miles on miles."

And there, with the soft light lingering on her hair, and tears of
gladness in her eyes, stood Angela, more lovely than before, her arms
outstretched to greet him. And then the night closed in, and he awoke.

His eyes opened upon the solemn and beautiful hour of the first
quickening of the dawn, and the thrill and softness that comes from
contact with the things we meet in sleep was still upon him. He got up
and flung open his lattice window. From the garden beneath rose the
sweet scent of May flowers, very different from that of his dream
which yet lingered in his nostrils, whilst from a neighbouring lilac-
bush streamed the rich melody of the nightingale. Presently it ceased
before the broadening daylight, but in its stead, pure and clear and
cold, arose the notes of the mavis, giving tuneful thanks and glory to
its Maker. And, as he listen