In his sleep that night a dream appeared to Maltravers. He thought he
was alone in the old library at Burleigh, and gazing on the portrait of
his mother; as he so gazed, he fancied that a cold and awful tremor
seized upon him, that he in vain endeavoured to withdraw his eyes from
the canvas--his sight was chained there by an irresistible spell. Then
it seemed to him that the portrait gradually changed,--the features the
same, but the bloom vanished into a white and ghastly hue; the colours of
the dress faded, their fashion grew more large and flowing, but heavy and
rigid as if cut in stone,--the robes of the grave. But on the face there
was a soft and melancholy smile, that took from its livid aspect the
natural horror; the lips moved, and, it seemed as if without a sound, the
released soul spoke to that which the earth yet owned.

"Return," it said, "to thy native land, and thine own home. Leave not
the last relic of her who bore and yet watches over thee to stranger
hands. Thy good Angel shall meet thee at thy hearth!"

The voice ceased. With a violent effort Maltravers broke the spell that
had forbidden his utterance. He called aloud, and the dream vanished: he
was broad awake, his hair erect, the cold dews on his brow. The pallet,
rather than bed on which he lay, was opposite to the window, and the
wintry moonlight streamed wan and spectral into the cheerless room. But
between himself and the light there seemed to stand a shape, a shadow,
that into which the portrait had changed in his dream,--that which had
accosted and chilled his soul. He sprang forward, "My mother! even in
the grave canst thou bless thy wretched son! Oh, leave me not--say that
thou--" The delusion vanished, and Maltravers fell back insensible.

It was long in vain, when, in the healthful light of day, he revolved
this memorable dream, that Maltravers sought to convince himself that