"May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. She knew it. "Nothing you can say to the contrary will convince me that you have not been accessory to his flight. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out. No doubt there’s some little mistake.
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