The colour of the face was the white, greyish tint of death.
"This is a nightmare," said Brenton to himself; "I must try and wake myself." But he seemed powerless to do this, and he sat there looking at his own body while the night wore on.

Once he rose and went to the side of the bed.

He seemed to have reached it merely by wishing himself there, and he passed his hand over the face, but no feeling of touch was communicated to him.

He hoped his wife would come and rouse him from this fearful semblance of a dream, and, wishing this, he found himself standing at her side, amidst the throng downstairs, who were now merrily saying good-bye.

Brenton tried to speak to his wife, but although he was conscious of speaking, she did not seem to hear him, or know he was there.
[Illustration: He again sat in the rocking-chair.] The party had been one given on Christmas Eve, and as it was now two o'clock in the morning, the departing guests were wishing Mrs.Brenton a merry Christmas.