"I shall return in a month or two now; my father is lonely without
me."

"I suppose he spoils you," said Dartmouth, smiling. "I imagine you
were an abominable infant. Tell me of some of the outrageous things
you used to do. I was called the worst child in three counties; but, I
doubt not, your exploits discounted mine, as the Americans say."

"Oh, mine are too bad to relate," she exclaimed, with a nervous laugh,
and coloring swiftly, as she had done the night before. "But you were
ill for a whole week, were you not? Was it anything serious?"

Dartmouth felt a sudden impulse to tell her of his strange experience.
He was not given to making confidences, but he felt _en rapport_ with
this girl as he had never felt with man or woman before. He had a
singular feeling, when talking with or listening to her, of losing his
sense of separateness. It was not that he felt de-individualized, but
that he had an accession of personality. It was pleasant because it
was novel, but at the same time it was uncomfortable because it was
a trifle unnatural. He smiled a little to himself. Was it a case of
affinity after all? But he had no time to analyze. She was waiting for
an answer, and in a moment he found himself yielding to his impulse
and giving her a graphic account of his peculiar visitation.

At first she merely dropped her tapestry and listened attentively,
smiling and blushing a little when he told her what had immediately
preceded the impulse to write. But gradually the delicate pink left
her face, and she began to move in the spasmodic, uncontrollable way
of a person handling an electric battery. She clasped the arms of
her chair with such force that her arms looked twisted and rigid, and