After gazing at her for a few moments, Clarence called gently, “Little Birdie.”  She gave a timid joyous little cry of surprise and pleasure, and fluttered into his arms.

“Oh, Clary, love, how you startled me!  I did not dream there was any one in the room.  It was so naughty in you,” said she, childishly, as he pushed back the curls from her face and kissed her.  “When did you arrive?”

“Only an hour ago,” he answered.

“And you came here at once?  Ah, that was so lover-like and kind,” she rejoined, smiling.

“You look like a sylph to-night, Anne,” said he, as she danced about him.  “Ah,” he continued, after regarding her for a few seconds with a look of intense admiration, “you want to rivet my chains the tighter,—­you look most bewitching.  Why are you so much dressed to-night?—­jewels, sash, and satin slippers,” he continued; “are you going out?”

“No, Clary,” she answered.  “I was to have gone to the theatre; but just at the last moment I decided not to.  A singular desire to stay at home came over me suddenly.  I had an instinctive feeling that I should lose some greater enjoyment if I went; so I remained at home; and here, love, are you.  But what is the matter? you look sad and weary.”

“I am a little fatigued,” said he, seating himself and holding her hand in his:  “a little weary; but that will soon wear off; and as for the sadness,” concluded he, with a forced smile, “that must depart now that I am with you, Little Birdie.”

“I feel relieved that you have returned safe and well,” said she, looking up into his face from her seat beside him; “for, Clary, love, I had such a frightful dream, such a singular dream about you.  I have endeavoured to shake it out of my foolish little head; but it won’t go, Clary,—­I can’t get rid of it.  It occurred after you left us at Saratoga.  Oh, it was nothing though,” said she, laughing and shaking her curls,—­“nothing; and now you are safely returned, I shall not think of it again.  Tell me what you have seen since you went away; and how is that dear Aunt Ada of yours you talk so much about?”

“Oh, she is quite well,” answered he; “but tell, Anne, tell me about that dream.  What was it, Birdie?—­come tell me.”

“I don’t care to,” she answered, with a slight shudder,—­“I don’t want to, love.”

“Yes, yes,—­do, sweet,” importuned he; “I want to hear it.”

“Then if I must,” said she, “I will.  I dreamed that you and I were walking on a road together, and ’twas such a beautiful road, with flowers and fruit, and lovely cottages on either side.  I thought you held my hand; I felt it just as plain as I clasp yours now.  Presently a rough ugly man overtook us, and bid you let me go; and that you refused, and held me all the tighter.  Then he gave you a diabolical look, and touched you on the face, and you broke out in loathsome black spots, and screamed in such agony and frightened me so, that I awoke all in a shiver of terror, and did not get over it all the next day.”