his own. Accordingly, he took his manuscript back again, and, with an air of surly resignation, spread it open before him.
'I don't think you will like this story, miss,' he began, addressing Jessie, 'but I shall read it, nevertheless, with the greatest pleasure. It begins in a stable—it gropes its way through a dream—it keeps company with a hostler— and it stops without an end. What do you think of that?'
After favoring his audience with this promising preface, Morgan indulged himself in a chuckle of supreme satisfaction, and then began to read, without wasting another preliminary word on any one of us.
BROTHER MORGAN'S STORY of THE DREAM-WOMAN.
CHAPTER I.
I HAD not been settled much more than six weeks in my country practice when I was sent for to a neighboring town, to consult with the resident medical man there on a case of very dangerous illness.
My horse had come down with me at the end of a long ride the night before, and had hurt himself, luckily, much more than he had hurt his master. Being deprived of the animal's services, I started for my destination by the coach (there were no railways at that time), and I hoped to get back again, toward the afternoon, in the same way.
After the consultation was over, I went to the principal inn of the town to wait for the coach. When it came up it was full inside and out. There was no resource left me but to get home as cheaply as I could by hiring a gig. The price asked for this accommodation struck me as being so extortionate, that I determined to look out for an inn of inferior pretensions, and to try if I could not make a better bargain with a less prosperous establishment.
I soon found a likely-looking house, dingy and quiet, with an old-fashioned sign, that had evidently not been repainted for many years past. The landlord, in this case, was not above making a small profit, and as soon as we came to terms he rang the yard-bell to order the gig.
'Has Robert not come back from that errand?' asked the landlord, appealing to the waiter who answered the bell.
'No, sir, he hasn't.'
'Well, then, you must wake up Isaac.'
'Wake up Isaac!' I repeated; 'that sounds rather odd. Do your hostlers go to bed in the daytime?'
'This one does,' said the landlord, smiling to himself in rather a strange way.
'And dreams too,' added the waiter; 'I shan't forget the turn it gave me the first time I heard him.'
'Never you mind about that,' retorted the proprietor; 'you go and rouse Isaac up. The gentleman's waiting for his gig.'
The landlord's manner and the waiter's manner expressed a great deal more than they either of them said. I began to suspect that I might be on the trace of something professionally interesting to me as a medical man, and I thought I should like to look at the hostler before the waiter awakened him.
'Stop a minute,' I interposed; 'I have rather a fancy for seeing this man before you wake him up. I'm a doctor; and if this queer sleeping and dreaming of his comes from anything wrong in his brain, I may be able to tell you what to do with him.'
'I rather think you will find his complaint past all doctoring, sir,' said the landlord; 'but, if you would like to see him, you're welcome, I'm sure.'
He led the way across a yard and down a passage to the stables, opened one of the doors, and, waiting outside himself, told me to look in.
I found myself in a two-stall stable. In one of the stalls a horse was munching his corn; in the other an old man was lying asleep on the litter.
I stooped and looked at him attentively. It was a withered, woe-begone face. The eyebrows were painfully contracted; the mouth was fast set, and drawn down at the corners.
The hollow wrinkled cheeks, and the scanty grizzled hair, told their own tale of some past sorrow or suffering. He was drawing his breath convulsively when I first looked at him, and in a moment more he began to talk in his sleep.
'Wake up!' I heard him say, in a quick whisper, through his clinched teeth. 'Wake up there! Murder!'
He moved one lean arm slowly till it rested over his throat, shuddered a little, and turned on his straw. Then the arm left his throat, the hand stretched itself out, and clutched at the side toward which he had turned, as if he fancied himself to be grasping at the edge of something. I saw his lips move, and bent lower over him. He was still talking in his sleep.
'Light gray eyes,' he murmured, 'and a droop in the left eyelid; flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it—all right, mother—fair white arms, with a down on them—little lady's hand, with a reddish look under the finger nails. The knife—always the cursed knife—first on one side, then on the other. Aha! you she-devil, where's the knife?'
At the last word his voice rose, and he grew restless on a sudden. I saw him shudder on the straw; his withered face became distorted, and he threw up both his hands with a quick hysterical gasp. They struck against the bottom of the manger under which he lay, and the blow awakened him. I had just time to slip through the door and close it before his eyes were fairly open, and his senses his own again.
'Do you know anything about that man's past life?' I said to the landlord.
'Yes, sir, I know pretty well all about it,' was the answer, 'and an uncommon queer story it is. Most people don't believe it. It's true, though, for all that. Why, just look at him,' continued the landlord, opening the stable door again. 'Poor devil! he's so worn out with his restless nights that he's dropped back into his sleep already.'
