She lay down therefore, and at last fell asleep.

Her over-excited brain, however, could not rest; the most troubled and fantastic dreams came to her,--her mother, Mary Wanita, Percy, Maurice, and many other persons seemed to surround her--but in every change of scene there appeared the shadowy figure of her father, constantly working or threatening harm.

Sometimes she saw him as he looked in his portrait, and shrank from him as a kind of evil genius, beautiful and yet terrible--sometimes like the Indian who had met her by the river, a hideous, scarcely human object.

Then, last of all, she saw him distinctly, as the scene her mother had described, the last time when she had really seen him, came before her, not by the power of imagination but of memory.

For, waking up, she knew that, impressed upon her childish recollection by terror, that scene had never been entirely forgotten.