* * * * *
As a rule one is the hero of one's own dreams, but at times I have dreamt
a dream entirely in the third person--a dream with the incidents of which
I have had no connection whatever, except as an unseen and impotent
spectator. One of these I have often thought about since, wondering if
it could not be worked up into a story. But, perhaps, it would be too
painful a theme.
I dreamt I saw a woman's face among a throng. It is an evil face, but
there is a strange beauty in it. The flickering gleams thrown by street
lamps flash down upon it, showing the wonder of its evil fairness. Then
the lights go out.
I see it next in a place that is very far away, and it is even more
beautiful than before, for the evil has gone out of it. Another face is
looking down into it, a bright, pure face. The faces meet and kiss, and,
as his lips touch hers, the blood mounts to her cheeks and brow. I see
the two faces again. But I cannot tell where they are or how long a time
has passed. The man's face has grown a little older, but it is still
young and fair, and when the woman's eyes rest upon it there comes a
glory into her face so that it is like the face of an angel. But at
times the woman is alone, and then I see the old evil look struggling
back.
Then I see clearer.
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