"Come with me and I will tell you."
When we were in the parlour she took a penknife and began to sharpen a pencil. She frowned over her task and then laughed, but so quietly that the sound died in a breath.
"Now, tell me how I look in my sleep."
She laid knife and pencil on the table, and knelt before me, resting her hands on my knees.
"Did you ever know I watched you in your sleep, Arthur?"
"No."
"Not by moonlight-though the moon shines bright sometimes; but never bright enough for me to see you. But when you are sleeping soundly I steal out of bed, and light the candle and watch you. But first I listen to your breathing. If it is calm then I watch; but if it is disturbed I go to sleep. Shall I tell you why?"
"Yes."
"Because I never know whether you are dreaming of me or not. If you breathe short and troubled, the expression of your face might give me pain—it would be troubled, too; and if I were to think at such a time that you were dreaming of me it would make me wretched." She sighed.