Mary
struggled in her sleep to tell her benefactress how she loved her, and
approved of all she had done, and wanted nothing,--but felt herself
bound as by a nightmare, so that she could not move or speak, or even put
out a hand to dry those tears which it was intolerable to her to see;
and woke with the struggle, and the miserable sensation of seeing her
dearest friend weep and being unable to comfort her. The moon was shining
into the room, throwing part of it into a cold, full light, while
blackness lay in all corners. The impression of her dream was so strong
that Mary's eyes turned instantly to the spot where in her dream her
godmother had stood. To be sure, there was nobody there; but as her
consciousness returned, and with it the sweep of painful recollection,
the sense of change, the miserable contrast between the present and the
past,--sleep fled from her eyes. She fell into the vividly awake
condition which is the alternative of broken sleep, and gradually, as she
lay, there came upon her that mysterious sense of another presence in the
room which is so subtle and indescribable. She neither saw anything nor
heard anything, and yet she felt that some one was there.
She lay still for some time and held her breath, listening for a
movement, even for the sound of breathing,--scarcely alarmed, yet sure
that she was not alone.
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