“I don’t want to sleep; I’d give anything not to sleep!”
“Why, Cynthia!”
“If I could really sleep—drop into oblivion—I would like it, but instead I dream, and, oh, God! I fear my dream.”
Eleanor laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Lie down,” she commanded, “and compose yourself.”
Cynthia lay back on her pillows, panting a little from her exertion, the color coming and going in her winsome face.
“I would give anything, Eleanor, if I had your tranquil disposition,” she said, more quietly. “I cannot help my temperament. My mother was Scotch to the fingertips, and, I have been told, had the gift of second-sight—although I sometimes doubt if such a thing is a gift.”
“Perhaps I can understand better than you think,” said Eleanor gently. “My mother was Irish, and the Irish, you know, are just as great believers in the supernatural as the Scotch.”
“You always understand,” Cynthia bent forward and kissed her friend warmly. “That’s why you are such a comfort. Let me tell you why I am so nervous and unstrung. Since a little child I have been obsessed by one dream, it is always the same, and always precedes disaster.” She sighed, drearily. “I had it just before my grandmother’s death; then before my uncle, Mr. Winthrop, killed himself; and on Sunday night I had it again.” She shuddered as she spoke.
“What is your dream?”