on the floor (I was always an untidy child).  An old man enters—an old, bent, withered man—holding a lamp above his head, and I look at his face, and it is my own face.  And another enters, and he also is myself.  Then more and more, till the room is thronged with faces, and the stair-way beyond, and all the silent house.  Some of the faces are old and others young, and some are fair and smile at me, and many are foul and leer at me.  And every face is my own face, but no two of them are alike.

I do not know why the sight of myself should alarm me so, but I rush from the house in terror, and the faces follow me; and I run faster and faster, but I know that I shall never leave them behind me.

* * * * *

As a rule one is the hero of one’s own dreams, but at times I have dreamt a dream entirely in the third person—a dream with the incidents of which I have had no connection whatever, except as an unseen and impotent spectator.  One of these I have often thought about since, wondering if it could not be worked up into a story.  But, perhaps, it would be too painful a theme.

I dreamt I saw a woman’s face among a throng.  It is an evil face, but there is a strange beauty in it.  The flickering gleams thrown by street lamps flash down upon it, showing the wonder of its evil fairness.  Then the lights go out.

I see it next in a place that is very far away, and it is even more beautiful than before, for the evil has gone out of it.  Another face is looking down into it, a bright, pure face.  The faces meet and kiss, and, as his lips touch hers, the blood mounts to her cheeks and brow.  I see the two faces again.  But I cannot tell where they are or how long a time has passed.  The man’s face has grown a little older, but it is still young and fair, and when the woman’s eyes rest upon it there comes a glory into her face so tha