When he wakened he was on his knees, with hands clasped in supplication before his wife, who, with tears in her eyes, but with laughter quivering on her lips—in fact, nearly hysterical, had arisen from her chair with her pencil and notebook.
"Why, Tom," she said, "what is the matter with you? You were not yourself; it was so absurd and ridiculous. Did you go to sleep, and do you talk in your sleep, as I walk in mine?"
"No," he answered, rising and blinking sheepishly. "Did I? Yes, perhaps I did doze off—in the chair. Did I get up?"
"Yes, and got down—on your knees to me, with your eyes impassionedly fixed on mine—oh, it was so funny, but it frightened me; you were so intense—and you delivered yourself of—well, I took it down in shorthand, and I'll transcribe it first, and then read."
He sat down in his chair, and she worked busily for a few moments, and then said: "Now, I'll read first what I took down from that horrid sea-story, and you take the book and follow me to see if I've made mistakes."
He picked up the book from the floor, found the page, and scanned it while she read from her copy as follows:
"'—which had blown, at times, with a force that nearly amounted to a little gale, was lulling and becoming uncertain, as though awed by the more violent power that was gathering along the borders of the sea, in the direction of the neighboring continent. Each moment the eastern puffs of air lost their strength and became more and more feeble, until, in an incredibly short period, the heavy sails were heard flapping against the masts—a frightful and ominous calm succeeding.'
"Now," she said, "did I make any mistakes in this?"
"No," he answered, "word for word it is correct."
"Very well. You know I stopped you at this point, and when I had written it out in longhand, I said 'I'm ready. Go on,' and turned to a new page; but you, instead of reading more, dropped the book, got down on your knees, and—just listen—you uttered this in tones of the utmost distress: