One of Varick's boon companions in camp and hunting excursions was a
distinguished New York specialist in nervous diseases. A day or two
later Varick found it convenient to drop into this man's office and,
quite casually, tell him the story of his dreams, giving it various
light touches that he fondly imagined concealed the anxiety that lay
beneath the recital. "Recurrent dreams," he then learned, were a very
common human experience and not deserving of much attention.

"Don't think about it," said his friend. "Of course, if you worry over
it, you'll be dreaming it all the time. Send this 'personally
conducted tour' to me if you don't like it. I don't mind meeting
pretty women who are 'dreams,' whether in the flesh or out of it."

As time went on and the dream did not return, Varick decided that he
would not mind, either. He thought of her a great deal; he even longed
for her. Eventually he deliberately tried to induce the dream by going
to bed early, putting himself in the proper mental attitude, as he
conceived it, and staring wide-eyed into his dimly lighted room. But
only once in eighteen months was he even partly successful. Then he
saw the haze, saw the familiar streets, saw her far, far ahead of him,
and hurrying onward, saw her turn a sharp corner, caught one backward
look from her dear brown eyes as she vanished--and awoke! He gave much
thought to that look in the months which followed. He was a modest
youth, singularly unconscious of his own charms; but the eloquent
glance had conveyed to him a sense of longing--of more than longing.

Quite an interval elapsed before she came again. There was, first of
all, the inevitable filmy effect, but, in the vision that succeeded
it, instead of finding himself in the little town, he was in the
depths of a great old forest, and in horrible agony. Some accident had