is rather indiscreet."

"I am quite sure it is not that," she replied, encouragingly.

"I am in the position of an eavesdropper," I continued, "who, having
overheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming to
concern him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest."

"An eavesdropper!" she repeated, looking puzzled.

"Yes," I said, "but an excusable one, as I think you will admit."

"This is very mysterious," she replied.

"Yes," said I, "so mysterious that often I have doubted whether I
really overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or only
dreamed it. I want you to tell me. The matter is this: When I was
coming out of that sleep of a century, the first impression of which I
was conscious was of voices talking around me, voices that afterwards I
recognized as your father's, your mother's, and your own. First, I
remember your father's voice saying, "He is going to open his eyes. He
had better see but one person at first." Then you said, if I did not
dream it all, "Promise me, then, that you will not tell him." Your
father seemed to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and your
mother interposing, he finally promised, and when I opened my eyes I
saw only him."

I had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I had not
dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so incomprehensible
was it that these people should know anything of me, a contemporary of
their great-grandparents, which I did not know myself. But when I saw
the effect of my words upon Edith, I knew that it was no dream, but
another mystery, and a more puzzling one than any I had before
encountered. For from the moment that the drift of my question became
apparent, she showed indications of the most acute embarrassment. Her
eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had dropped in a panic
before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to forehead.

"Pardon me," I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment at
the extraordinary effect of my words. "It seems, then, that I was not
dreaming. There is some secret, something about me, which you are
withholding from me. Really, doesn't it seem a little hard that a
person in my position should not be given all the information possible
concerning himself?"

"It does not concern you--that is, not directly. It is not about you
exactly," she replied, scarcely audibly.

"But it concerns me in some way," I persisted. "It must be so