where have i seen these tall black trees,

two and two and three—yes, seven,

standing all about in a ring,

and pointing up to heaven?

where have i seen this black, black pool,

that never ruffles to any breath,

but stares and stares at the empty sky,

as silently as death?

how did we come here, you and i,

with the pool beneath, and the trees above?

oh, even in death or the dusk of a dream,

you are heart of the heart of love.

elizabeth was very pale when she came down the next day. as she dressed, she could hear david singing and whistling in his room. he went down the stairs like a schoolboy, and when she followed she found him opening his letters and whistling still.

“hullo!” he said. “good-morning. you’re late, and i’ve only got half an hour to breakfast in. i’m starving, i don’t believe you gave me any dinner last night. i shall be late for lunch. give me something cold when i come in, i’ve got a pretty full day——”

elizabeth wondered as she listened to him if it were she who had dreamed.

that evening he looked up suddenly from his book and said:

“was the moon full last night?”

“not quite.”

elizabeth was startled. did he, after all, remember anything?

“when is it full?”

“to-morrow, i think. why?”

her breathing quickened a little as she asked the question.

“because i dreamed my dream again last night, and it generally comes when the moon is full,” he said.

elizabeth turned, as if to get more light upon her book. she could not sit and let him see her face.

“your dream——?”

her voice was low.

“yes.”

he paused for so long that the silence seemed to close upon elizabeth. then he said thoughtfully:

“dreams are odd things. i’ve had this one off and on since i was a boy. and it’s always the same. but i have not had it for months. then last night—” he broke off. “do you know i’ve never told any one about it before—does it bore you?”

“no,” said elizabeth, and could not have said more to save her life.

“it’s a queer dream, and it never varies. there’s always the same long, wet stretch of sand, and the moon shining over the sea. and a woman——”

“yes——”

“she stands at the edge of the sea with the moon behind her, and the wind—did i tell you about the wind?—it blows her hair and her dress. and i have never seen her face.”

“no?”

“no, never. i’ve always wanted to, but i can never get near enough, and the moon is behind her. when i was a boy, i used to walk in my sleep when i had the dream. i used to wake up in all sorts of odd places. once i got as far as the front-door step, and waked with my feet on the wet stones. i suppose i was looking for the woman.”

elizabeth took a grip of herself.

“do you walk in your sleep now?”

he shook his head.

“oh, no. not since i was a boy,” he said cheerfully. “mrs. havergill would have evolved a ghost story long ago if i had.”

“and last night your dream was just the same?”

“yes, just the same. it always ends just when it might get exciting.”

“did you wake?”

“no. that’s the odd part. one is supposed to dream only when one is waking, and of course it’s very hard to tell, but my impression is, that at the point where my dream ends i drop more deeply asleep. dreams are queer things. i don’t know why i told you about this one.”

he took up his book as he spoke, and they talked no more.

elizabeth went to her room early that night, but she did not get into bed. she moved about the room, hanging up the dress she had worn, folding her things—even sorting out a drawer full of odds and ends. it seemed as if she must occupy herself.

presently she heard david come up and go into his room. she went on rolling up stray bits of lace and ribbon with fingers that seemed oddly numb. when she had finished, she began to brush her hair, standing before the glass, and brushing with a long, rhythmic movement. after about ten minutes she turned suddenly and blew out the candle. she went to the window and opened it wide.

then, because she was trembling, she sat down on the window-seat and waited. the night came into the room and filled it. the trees moved above the water. the rumble of traffic in the high street sounded very far away. it had nothing to do with the world in which elizabeth waited. there was no wind to-night. it was very still and warm. the moon shone.

when the door opened, elizabeth knew that she had known that he would come. he crossed the room and took her in his arms. she felt his arms about her, she felt his kiss, and there was nothing of the unsubstantial stuff of dreams in his strong clasp. for one moment, as her lips kissed too, she thought that he was awake—that he had remembered, but as she stepped back and looked into his face she saw that he was in his dream. his eyes looked far away. then he kissed her again, and dreaming or waking her soul went out of her and was his soul, her very consciousness was no more hers, but his, and she, too, saw that strange, moon-guarded shore, and she, too, heard the wind. but the night—the night was still. where did it come from, this sudden rush of the wind, that seemed to blow through her? from far away it came, from very far away, and it passed through her and on to its own far place again, a rushing eddy of wind, whirling about some unknown centre.

elizabeth was giddy and faint with the singing of that wind in her ears. the moon was in her eyes. she trembled, and hid them upon david’s breast.

“david,” she whispered at last, and he answered her.

“love—love——”

she turned a little from the light and looked at him. there was a smile upon his face, and his eyes smiled too.

“where are we?” she said. and david laid his face against hers and said:

“we are in the dream.”

“david, what is the dream? do you know? tell me.”

“it is the dream,” he said, “the old dream, the dream that has no waking.”

“and who am i? am i elizabeth?” she feared so much to say it, and could not rest till it was said.

“elizabeth.” he repeated the word, and paused. his eyes clouded.

“you are the woman of the dream.”

“but i have a name——”

“yes—you have a name, but i have forgotten—if i could remember it. it is the name—the old name—the name you had before the moon went down. it was at night. you kissed me. there were so many trees. i knew your name. then the moon went down, and it was dark, and i forgot—not you—only the name. are you angry, love, because i have forgotten your name?”

there was trouble in his tone.

“no, not angry,” said elizabeth, with a quiver in her voice. “will you call me elizabeth, david? will you say elizabeth to me?”

he said “elizabeth,” and as he said it his face changed. for a moment she thought that he was waking. his arms dropped from about her, and he drew a long, deep breath that was like a sigh.

then he went slowly from her into the darkness of his own room, walking as if he saw.

elizabeth fell on her knees by the window-seat and hid her face. the wind still sang in her ears.