distinctly than those that had so many times escaped him: "Phillis--
forgive."

He dreamed of her. Poor, dear Victor! for what did he wish her to
pardon him? Doubtless for having threatened to hypnotize her:

Overcome by this proof of love she put her head through the opening of
the window to give him a look before returning to her mother, but on
seeing his face in the full white light of the morning, she was
frightened; it expressed the most violent sorrow, the features convulsed
with anguish and horror at the same time. Surely he was ill. She must
wake him. just as she took a step toward him he began to speak: "Your
brother--or me?"

She stopped as if thunderstruck, then instinctively she drew back and
clung to the window in the vestibule to keep herself from falling,
repeating those two words that she had just heard, not understanding, not
wishing to understand.

Instead of returning to her mother, trembling and holding on to the wall
she entered the parlor and let herself fall into a chair, prostrated,
crushed.

"Your brother--or me?"

This was, then, the truth, the frightful truth that she had never wished
to see.

She stayed there until the noises in the street warned her that it was
getting late, and she might be surprised. Then she returned to her