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“It is a very pretty dream,” said Miranda, as he stopped, visibly exhausted, “and truer than most dreams. When we were bringing you up from the beach, we rested several times in the wood, and Miss Sullivan, who seems to me like an angel, stooped over you to see whether you were reviving at all. I remember, too, that she said something like what you heard.”

“Miss Sullivan,” repeated Mr. Waddy, rather crossly; “a very respectable young woman, I’ve no doubt. But I don’t know her—well, I must have been in a trance and seen old visions.”

He remained silent for some time, buried in thought—not pleasant thought, to judge by his countenance.

“Princess Miranda,” he resumed, at last, “what may be the name of your realm? Where am I? Is Duke Prospero without?”

“You’re in father’s house on The Island in Maine,” answered Miranda simply. “There’s father, now, just come back from taking Miss Sullivan to Loggerly.”

“So she’s gone without stopping to see whether I lived or died!” muttered Mr. Waddy. “I’m glad of it. Infernal bore! to have to thank her and pay compliments to some namby-pamby plough-girl. Let’s see what I can give her—a six-inch cameo—a copy of Tennyson’s poems—an annuity of ten bushels of tracts? She won’t like money—I know these Yankee girls. This Miranda is another style. By curry!” asseverated he rapturously, “she is as grand as a lioness. Singularly like Hawkins’s partner in the schooner. Ah, those poor fellows! Not one of them left, I’m afraid.”