"I think that that must have been why I was to glad to see you come into church to-day.

I dreamed that you had never come home again, overseas, in the Golden Rose.

Hugon was beside me, in the dream, telling me that you were dead in England: and suddenly I knew that I had never really seen you; that there was no garden, no terrace, no roses, no _you_.

It was all so cold and sad, and the sun kept growing smaller and smaller.

The woods, too, were black, and the wind cried in them so that I was afraid.