“You told me I saved you from going mad. So I mean to stay. And I mean to sleep in the same room with you, so that you shall not be frightened any more.”
Mrs. Dale shook her head.
“I can’t let you do that,” said she. “I don’t sleep very well, and sometimes I start up and cry out. I should frighten you.”
“Then we will exchange rooms,” said Mabin.
By the look of joy and relief which flashed over Mrs. Dale’s face at this suggestion, Mabin saw that she had conquered.
“But—won’t you be afraid?” asked the widow in a troubled voice.
“What! Of a ghost, a vision? Or of having bad dreams? No, not a bit.”
Mrs. Dale glanced gratefully at the young face, with its look of robust Philistine scorn of phantoms.
“It is a temptation,” she murmured. “For, after all, I know, I know that it was only a dream, a horrible dream. And there is no fear that the dream will come to you.”
“And if it did,” retorted Mabin stoutly, “it wouldn’t frighten me. I’m too ‘stodgy;’ I have no imagination.”