and two o'clock in the morning was the time
when you were born!"

Isaac's capacities were not quick enough to
catch the infection of his mother's
superstitious dread. He was amazed and a little
startled also, when she suddenly rose from
her chair, opened her old writing-desk, took
out pen and ink and paper, and then said to
him:

"Your memory is but a poor one, Isaac,
and now I'm an old woman, mine's not much
better. I want all about this dream of yours
to be as well known to both of us, years
hence, as it is now. Tell me over again all
you told me a minute ago, when you spoke of
what the woman with the knife looked like."

Isaac obeyed, and marvelled much as he
saw his mother carefully set down on paper
the very words that he was saying. " Light
grey eyes," she wrote, as they came to the
descriptive part, " with a droop in the left
eyelid. Flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow
streak in it. White arms, with a down on
them. Little lady's hand, with a reddish
look about the finger-nails. Clasp knife with
a buck-horn handle, that seemed as good as
new." To these particulars, Mrs. Scatchard
added the year, month, day of the week, and
time in the morning, when the woman of the
dream appeared to her son. She then locked
up the paper carefully in her writing-desk.

Neither on that day, nor on any day after,
could her son induce her to return to the
matter of the dream. She obstinately kept
her thoughts about it to herself, and even
refused to refer again to the paper in her
writing-desk. Ere long, Isaac grew weary of
attempting to make her break her resolute
silence; and time, which sooner or later,
wears out all things, gradually wore out the
impression produced on him by the dream.
He began by thinking of it carelessly, and he
ended by not thinking of it at all. This
result was the more easily brought about by
the advent of some important changes for the
better in his prospects, which commenced
not long after his terrible night's experience
at the inn. He reaped at last the reward of
his long and patient suffering under adversity,
by getting an excellent place, keeping it
for seven years, and leaving it, on the death
of his master, not only with an excellent
character, but also with a comfortable
annuity bequeathed to him as a reward for
saving his mistress's life in a carriage
accident. Thus it happened that Isaac
Scatchard returned to his old mother, seven
years after the time of the dream at the inn,
with an annual sum of money at his disposal,
sufficient to keep them both in ease and
independence for the rest of their lives.

The mother, whose health had been bad
of late years, profited so much by the
care bestowed on her and by freedom from
money anxieties, that when Isaac's next
birthday came round, she was able to sit up
comfortably at table and dine with him.

On that day, as the evening drew on, Mrs.
Scatchard discovered that a bottle of tonic
medicine—which she was accustomed to take,
and in which she had fancied that a dose or
more was still left—happened to be empty.
Isaac immediately volunteered to go to the
chemist's, and get it filled again. It was as
rainy and bleak an autumn night as on the
memorable past occasion when he lost his
way and slept at the roadside inn.

On going into the chemist's shop, he was
passed hurriedly by a poorly-dressed woman
coming out of it. The glimpse he had of her
face struck him, and he looked back after her
as she descended the door-steps.

"You're noticing that woman? " said the
chemist's apprentice behind the counter.
"It's my opinion there's something wrong
with her. She's been asking for laudanum to
put to a bad tooth. Master's out for half an
hour; and I told her I wasn't allowed to sell
poison to strangers in his absence. She laughed
in a queer way, and said she would come back
in half an hour. If she expects master to
serve her, I think she'll be disappointed.
It's a case of suicide, sir, if ever there was
one yet."

These words added immeasurably to the
sudden interest in the woman which Isaac
had felt at the first sight of her face. After
he had got the medicine-bottle filled, he
looked about anxiously for her, as soon as he
was out in the street. She was walking
slowly up and down on the opposite side of
the road. With his heart, very much to his
own surprise, beating fast, Isaac crossed over
and spoke to her.

He asked if she was in any distress. She
pointed to her torn shawl, her scanty dress,
her crushed, dirty bonnet—then moved under
a lamp so as to let the light fall on her stern,
pale, but still most beautiful face.

"I look like a comfortable, happy woman—
don't I?" she said with a bitter laugh.

She spoke with a purity of intonation
which Isaac had never heard before from
other than ladies' lips. Her slightest actions
seemed to have the easy negligent grace of a
thorough-bred woman. Her skin, for all its
poverty-stricken paleness, was as delicate as
if her life had been passed in the enjoyment
of every social comfort that wealth can
purchase. Even her small, finely-shaped hands,
gloveless as they were, had not lost their
whiteness.

Little by little, in answer to his question,
the sad story of the woman came out. There
is no need to relate it here; it is told
over and over again in Police Reports and
paragraphs about Attempted Suicides.

"My name is Rebecca Murdoch," said the
woman, as she ended. "I have ninepence
left, and I thought of spending it at the
chemist's over the way in securing a passage
to the other world. Whatever it is, it can't
be worse to me than this—so why should I
stop here?"