and think it all over. I cannot tell you what it has been to me to meet
you once more. And that double dream, common to us both! Oh, I am dazed
beyond expression, and feel as if I were dreaming now--except that this
all seems so unreal and impossible--so untrue! We had better part now. I
don't know if I shall ever meet you again. You will be often in my
thoughts, but never in my dreams again--that, at least, I can
command--nor I in yours; it must not be. My poor father taught me how to
dream before he died, that I might find innocent consolation in dreams
for my waking troubles, which are many and great, as his were. If I can
see that any good may come of it, I will write--but no--you must not
expect a letter. I will now say good-bye and leave you. You go to-day,
do you not? That is best. I think this had better be a final adieu. I
cannot tell you of what interest you are to me and always have been. I
thought you had died long ago. We shall often think of each other--that
is inevitable--_but never, never dream. That will not do._

"Dear Mr. Ibbetson, I wish you all the good that one human being can
wish another. And now goodbye, and may God in heaven bless you!"

She rose, trembling and white, and her eyes wet with tears, and wrung
both my hands, and left me as she had left me in the dream.

The light went out of my life, and I was once more alone--more
wretchedly and miserably alone than if I had never met her.

I went back to Pentonville, and outwardly took up the thread of my
monotonous existence, and ate, drank, and worked, and went about as
usual, but as one in an ordinary dream. For now dreams--true dreams--had
become the only reality for me.