curious dream that kept coming again and again upon her; that she stood
upon a wee, bare rock I the sea, and that the tide was rising. The water
first came to her feet, then to her knees, then to her waist. Each time
the dream returned, the tide seemed higher. Once it rose to her neck,
once even to her mouth, covering her lips for a moment so that she could
not breathe. She did not wake between the dreams; a period of drab and
dreamless slumber intervened. But, finally, the water rose above her
eyes and face, completely covering her head.

And then came explanation--the sort of explanation dreams bring. She
understood. For, beneath the water, she had seen the world of seaweed
rising from the bottom of the sea like a forest of dense green-long,
sinuous stems, immense thick branches, millions of feelers spreading
through the darkened watery depths the power of their ocean foliage. The
Vegetable Kingdom was even in the sea. It was everywhere. Earth, air,
and water helped it, way of escape there was none.

And even underneath the sea she heard that terrible sound of
roaring--was it surf or wind or voices?--further out, yet coming
steadily towards her.

And so, in the loneliness of that drab English winter, the mind of Mrs.
Bittacy, preying upon itself, and fed by constant dread, went lost in
disproportion. Dreariness filled the weeks with dismal, sunless skies
and a clinging moisture that knew no wholesome tonic of keen frosts.
Alone with her thoughts, both her husband and her God withdrawn into
distance, she counted the days to Spring. She groped her way, stumbling
down the long dark tunnel. Through the arch at the far end lay a
brilliant picture of the violet sea sparkling on the coast of France.
There lay safety and escape for both of them, could she but hold on.