Clement had made a mistake in supposing that by giving his dream a material form he should drive it from the possession of his mind.

The image in which he had fixed his recollection of its original served only to keep her living presence before him.

He thought of her as she clasped her arms around him, and they were swallowed up in the rushing waters, coming so near to passing into the unknown world together.

He thought of her as he stretched her lifeless form upon the bank, and looked for one brief moment on her unsunned loveliness,--"a sight to dream of, not to tell." He thought of her as his last fleeting glimpse had shown her, beautiful, not with the blossomy prettiness that passes away with the spring sunshine, but with a rich vitality of which noble outlines and winning expression were only the natural accidents.

And that singular impression which the sight of him had produced upon her,--how strange! How could she but have listened to him,--to him, who was, as it were, a second creator to her, for he had bought her back from the gates of the unseen realm,--if he had recalled to her the dread moments they had passed in each other's arms, with death, not love, in all their thoughts.