d, but had
dark hair on the rest of his head. His beard was shaven on his chin,
but was let to grow, of a fine rich brown, on his cheeks and his upper
lip. His eyes were brown too, and very bright; his nose straight and
handsome and delicate enough to have done for a woman's. His hands the
same. He was troubled from time to time with a dry hacking cough, and
when he put up his white right hand to his mouth, he showed the red
scar of an old wound across the back of it. Have I dreamt of the right
man? You know best, Miss Fairlie and you can say if I was deceived or
not. Read next, what I saw beneath the outside--I entreat you, read,
and profit.

"I looked along the two rays of light, and I saw down into his inmost
heart. It was black as night, and on it were written, in the red
flaming letters which are the handwriting of the fallen angel, 'Without
pity and without remorse. He has strewn with misery the paths of
others, and he will live to strew with misery the path of this woman by
his side.' I read that, and then the rays of light shifted and pointed
over his shoulder; and there, behind him, stood a fiend laughing. And
the rays of light shifted once more, and pointed over your shoulder;
and there behind you, stood an angel weeping. And the rays of light
shifted for the third time, and pointed straight between you and that
man. They widened and widened, thrusting you both asunder, one from
the other. And the clergyman looked for the marriage-service in vain:
it was gone out of the book, and he shut up the leaves, and put it from
him in despair. And I woke with my eyes full of tears and my heart
beating--for I believe in dreams.

"Believe too, Miss Fairlie--I beg of you, for your own sake, believe as
I do. Joseph and Daniel, and others in Scripture, believed in dreams.
Inquire into the past life of that man with the scar on his hand,
before you say the words that make you his miserable wife. I don't
give you this warning on my account, but on yours. I have an interest
in your well-being that will live as long as I draw breath. Your
mother's daughter has a tender place in my heart--for your mother was
my first, my best, my only friend."

There the extraordinary letter ended, without signature of any sort.

The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It was traced on ruled
lines, in the cramped, conventional, copy-book character technically
termed "small hand." It was feeble and faint, and defaced