rose-tinted complexion, a pair of laughing, lustrous eyes, and,
altogether, such a happy, mirthful young face smiled back at me,
that I half doubted whether it was indeed myself I saw.

"There now!" cried Amy in triumph, watching me as I pushed my
clustering hair from my brows, and examined myself more intently.
"Did I not tell you so? The change in you is marvellous! I know what
it is. You have been getting better unconsciously to yourself in
this lovely air and scene, and the long afternoon sleep you've just
had has completed the cure."

I smiled at her enthusiasm, but was forced to admit that she was
right as far as my actual looks went. No one would believe that I
was, or ever had been, ill. In silence I loosened my hair and began
to brush it and put it in order before the mirror, and as I did so
my thoughts were very busy. I remembered distinctly all that had
happened in the studio of Raffaello Cellini, and still more
distinctly was I able to recall every detail of the three dreams
that had visited me in my slumber. The NAME, too, that had been the
key-note of them all I also remembered, but some instinct forbade me
to utter it aloud. Once I thought, "Shall I take a pencil and write
it down lest I forget it?" and the same instinct said "No." Amy's
voluble chatter ran on like the sound of a rippling brook all the
time I thus meditated over the occurrences of the day.

"Say, child!" she exclaimed; "will you go to the dance?"

"Certainly I will, with pleasure," I answered, and indeed I felt as
if I should thoroughly enjoy it.