Tell me
again what the Woman looked like. I want her to be as well known to both
of us, years hence, as she is now."
I obeyed; wondering what strange fancy might be working in her mind. I
spoke; and she wrote the words as they fell from my lips:
"Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen hair, with a
golden-yellow streak in it. White arms, with a down upon them. Little,
lady's hands, with a rosy-red look about the finger nails."
"Did you notice how she was dressed, Francis?"
"No, mother."
"Did you notice the knife?"
"Yes. A large clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, as good as new."
My mother added the description of the knife. Also the year, month, day of
the week, and hour of the day when the Dream-Woman appeared to me at the
inn. That done, she locked up the paper in her desk.
"Not a word, Francis, to your aunt. Not a word to any living soul. Keep
your Dream a secret between you and me."
The weeks passed, and the months passed. My mother never returned to the
subject again. As for me, time, which wears out all things, wore out my
remembrance of the Dream. Little by little, the image of the Woman grew
dimmer and dimmer. Little by little, she faded out of my mind.
VII
The story of the warning is now told. Judge for yourself if it was a true
warning or a false, when you hear what happened to me on my next birthday.
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