He was remembering the dream--the real--real dream.
"In the garden!" he said, wondering at himself.

"In the garden! But the door is locked and the key is buried deep." When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from Yorkshire.

It was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew.

He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once.
"Dear Sir: I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor.

It was about Miss Mary I spoke.