And again it was as though she heard his voice, clear and distinct, speaking to her from the empty chair in this haunted room.
She was sleeping very badly at this time, often hearing the church clock strike the hours till dawn before she fell into light dozes. Now in the middle of the night there came a knocking at the door of her room. Startled, she called out loudly.
The door opened a little way, and the old man spoke to her.
“Emmie, forgive me. Can you get up? I have something to tell you.”
She had turned on the light, and hastily putting a cloak round her she went to him in the corridor. He was wrapped in the loose folds of a dressing-gown, so white and feeble a thing as seen thus, so bony and thin, that his aspect gave her a new shock of pain. Because of the confusion of his spirit, forgetting the electric light, he carried a candle that was guttering and smoking in his shaky hand.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Dyke? Are you ill?” And she took the candle from him and blew it out.
“No, dear—not ill. But I have been thrown into great agitation by a dream. Emmie dear, I am still under the influence of it. Help me. It was like a vision. But dare one attach importance to it? Emmie, it was so wonderful. I did not know I was asleep—but I suppose I must have been.”
“Oh, Mr. Dyke, what was it?” She too was shaking now, so much that the candle fell from its socket and rolled against the wainscoat. “Tell me what it was.”