which interested him, but, as he once confessed to me, he swallowed, at such times, the bitter pill of the law for the sugar coating of science which enshrouded it.  This legal training could, therefore, it seems to me, have made no deep or radical change in his character, which leads me to think that the self-control he exhibited, despite the angry disgust with which I know Browne’s so apparent attentions to Gwen inspired him, must, for the most part, have been native to him rather than acquired.

Nothing worthy of record occurred until evening; at least nothing which at the time impressed me as of import, though I afterward remembered that Darrow’s behaviour was somewhat strange.  He appeared singularly preoccupied, and on one occasion started nervously when I coughed behind him.  He explained that a disagreeable dream had deprived him of his sleep the previous night and left his nerves somewhat unstrung, and I thought no more of it.

When the light failed we were all invited into the parlour to listen to a song by Miss Darrow.  The house, as you are perhaps aware, overlooks Dorchester Bay.  The afternoon had been very hot, but at dusk a cold east wind had sprung up, which, as it was still early in the season, was not altogether agreeable to our host, sitting as he was, back to, though fully eight feet from, an open window looking to the east.  Maitland, with his usual quick observation, noticed his discomfort and asked if he should not close the window.  The old gentleman did not seem to hear the question until it was repeated, when, starting as if from a reverie, he said:  “If it will not be too warm for the rest of you, I would like to have it partly closed, say to within six inches, for the wind is cold”; and he seemed to relapse again into his reverie.  Maitland was obliged to use considerable strength to force the window down, as it stuck in the casing, and when it finally gave way it closed with a loud shrieking sound ending in the bang of the counterweights.  At the noise Darrow sprang to his feet, exclaiming:  “Again!  The same sound!  I knew I could not mistake it!” but by this time Gwen was at his side, pressing him gently back into his seat, as she said to him in an undertone audible to all of us:  “What is it, father?” The old gentleman only pressed her closer by way of reply, while he said to us apologetically:  “You must excuse me, gentlemen.  I have a certain dream which haunts me,—­the dream of someone striking me out of the darkness.  Last night I had the same dream for the seventh time and awoke to hear that window opened.  There is no mistaking the sound I heard just now; it is identical with that I heard last night.  I sprang out of bed, took a light, and rushed down here, for I am not afraid to meet anything I can see, but the window was closed and locked, as I had left it!  What do you think, Doctor,” he said, turning to me, “are dreams ever prophetic?”

“I have never,” I replied, anxious to quiet him, “had any personal experience justifying such a conclusion.”  I did not tell him of certain things which had happened to friends of mine, and so my reply reassured him.