Dorothea, for all the sand in her shoes, seemed to walk to the
house on air. The inspiration had arrived, fully accoutered, as
it were, on the breath of Jennie's complaint.

The work in hand called for the dexterity of the true artist.
With managerial instinct, Dorothea, repelling any attempt at
conversation, waited only until Jennie was comfortably ensconced
in bed, to turn the lamp down so that it glimmered in sickly
fashion, before beginning proceedings. Then, seating herself
beside the bed--an eerie figure in her straight, white gown--she
shook her head dismally and indulged in a heartfelt sigh. Jennie,
her nerves already on edge with the ghost stories of the hour
before, turned startled eyes upon her.

"What is the matter? What is it?" she inquired anxiously.

"I--feel--strange," said Dorothea. She turned upon her victim a
face full of uncanny suggestion. Divested of its perpetual smile,
it seemed to Jennie as unfamiliar as a room from which an
accustomed piece of furniture had been moved.

"I feel--strange. Something terrible is happening somewhere.--I
can tell--I always can--I am going to have a vision--I can feel
it--It always comes like this." With a quick hand she
extinguished the lamp. "It will come in a dream," she muttered.
"Let me sleep, oh, let me sleep!"

She made a sweeping pass with her out- stretched hands and, after
a dramatic pause, fell heavily on her pillow, where she instantly