rming little
mer-children (of which he was one) lived an amphibious life by day,
diving and sporting in the waves.

Splendid caverns, decorated with precious stones, and hung with soft
moss, and shining with a strange light; heavenly music, sweet,
affectionate caresses--and then total darkness; and yet one knew who
and what and where everything and everybody was by some keener sense
than that of sight.

It all seemed strange and delightful, but so vague and shadowy it
was impossible to remember anything clearly; but ever pervading all
things was that feeling of the north which had always been such a
comfort to him.

Was this extraordinary letter the result of some such forgotten
dream he may have had during the previous night, and which may have
prompted him to write it in his sleep? some internal knowledge of
the anatomy of his own eye which was denied to him when awake?

Anyhow, it was evidently true about that blind spot in the retina
(the _punctum coecum_), and that he had been frightening himself out
of his wits for nothing, and that his right eye was really sound;
and, all through this wondrous yet simple revelation, it was time
this old hysterical mock-disease should die.

Once more life was full of hopes and possibilities, and with such
inarticulate and mysterious promptings as he often felt within his
soul, and such a hidden gift to guide them, what might he not one
day develop into?

Then he went and found Tescheles, and they dined together with a
famous pianist, Louis Brassin, and afterwards there was music, and
Barty felt the north, and his bliss was transcendent as he went back
to Malines by the last train--talking to Martia (as he expressed it
to himself) in a confidential whisper which he made audible to his
own ear (that she, if it was a she, might hear too); almost praying,
in a fervor of hope and gratitude; and begging for further guidance;
and he went warmly to sleep, hugging close within himself, somewhere
about the region of the diaphragm, an ineffable imaginary something
which he felt to be more precious than any possession that had ever
yet been his--more precious even than the apple of his remaining
eye; and when he awoke next morning he felt he had been most
blissfully dreaming all night long, but could not remember anything
of his dreams, and on a piece of paper he had left by his bedside
was written in pencil, in his own blaze:

"You must depend upon yourself, Barty, not on me. Follo