One evening, as Donal was walking in the little avenue below the terraces, Davie, who was now advanced to doing a little work without his master's immediate supervision, came running to him to say that Arkie was in the schoolroom and wanted to see him.
He hastened to her.
"A word with you, please, Mr. Grant," she said.
Donal sent the boy away.
"I have debated with myself all day whether I should tell you," she began--and her voice trembled not a little; "but I think I shall not be so much afraid to go to bed if I do tell you what I dreamt last night."
Her face was very pale, and there was a quiver about her mouth: she seemed ready to burst into tears.
"Do tell me," said Donal sympathetically.
"Do you think it very silly to mind one's dreams?" she asked.
"Silly or not," answered Donal, "as regards the general run of dreams, it is plain you have had one that must be minded. What we must mind, it cannot be silly to mind."
"I am in no mood, I fear, for philosophy," she rejoined, trying to smile. "It has taken such a hold of me that I cannot get rid of it, and there is no one I could tell it to but you; any one else would laugh at me; but you never laugh at anybody!
"I went to bed as well as usual, only a little troubled about my uncle's strangeness, and soon fell asleep, to find myself presently in a most miserable place. It was like a brick-field--but a deserted brick-field. Heaps of broken and half-burnt bricks were all about.
For miles and miles they stretched around me. I walked fast to get out of it. Nobody was near or in sight; there was not a sign of human habitation from horizon to horizon.
"All at once I saw before me a dreary church. It was old, tumble-down, and dirty--not in the least venerable--very ugly--a huge building without shape, like most of our churches. I shrank from the look of it: it was more horrible to me than I could account for; I feared it. But I must go in--why, I did not know, but I must: the dream itself compelled me.
