Each night the basket was carried to her room.

And each day Dowie watched with amazement the hollows in her temples and cheeks and under her eyes fill out, the small bones cover themselves, the thinned throat grow round with young tissue and smooth with satin skin.

Her hair became light curled silk again; the faint colour deepened into the Jacqueminot glow at which passers by had turned to look in the street when she was little more than a baby.

But she never talked of the dream.
The third time was the last for many weeks.
Between Doctor Benton and Dowie there grew up an increased reserve concerning the dream.

Never before had the man encountered an experience which so absorbed him.