This bed is the fairy cave under Penistone crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers; pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool.

That's what you'll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now.

I'm not wandering: you're mistaken, or else I should believe you really _were_ that withered hag, and I should think I _was_ under Penistone Crags; and I'm conscious it's night, and there are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet.' 'The black press?
where is that ?' I asked.

'You are talking in your sleep!' 'It's against the wall, as it always is,' she replied.

'It _does_ appear odd--I see a face in it!' 'There's no press in the room, and never was,' said I, resuming my seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her.
'Don't _you_ see that face ?' she inquired, gazing earnestly at the mirror.
And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl.
'It's behind there still!' she pursued, anxiously.