It forces me along, and into the house, and the door slams to behind us,
and the sound echoes through the lifeless rooms. I recognise the rooms;
I laughed and cried in them long ago. Nothing is changed. The chairs
stand in their places, empty. My mother's knitting lies upon the
hearthrug, where the kitten, I remember, dragged it, somewhere back in
the sixties.

I go up into my own little attic. My cot stands in the corner, and my
bricks lie tumbled out upon 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.