She dreamed once more of a young Englishman who pursued a young Indian along the wooden galleries of the road above the torrents into the far mists.
She could tell as of old the very dress of the native who fled.

A thick sheepskin coat swung aside as he ran and gave her a glimpse of gay silk; soft high leather boots protected his feet; and upon his face there was a look of fury and wild fear.

But this night there was a difference in the dream.

Her present distress added a detail.

The young Englishman who pursued turned his face to her as he disappeared amongst the mists, and she saw that it was the face of Dick.
But of this she said nothing at all at the breakfast table, nor when she bade Dick good-bye at the stile on the further side of the field beyond the garden.
"You will come down again, and I shall go to Marseilles to see you off," she said, and so let him go.
There was something, too, stirring in Dick's mind of which he said no word.