"You saw--and I--and Mavourneen."

"Mavonrneen is Irish," young Hugh said. "She has the second sight," and
the big old dog laid her nose on the woman's knee and lifted topaz eyes,
asking questions, and whimpered broken-heartedly.

"Dear dog," murmured the woman and drew the lovely head to her. "You saw
him." And then; "Hughie--he came to tell us. He is--dead."

"I think so," whispered young Hugh with bent head.

Then, fighting for breath, she told what had happened--the dream, the
intense happiness of it, how Brock had come smiling. "And Hugh, the only
thing he said, two or three times over, was, 'I'm coming to take
Hughie's hand.'"

The lad turned upon her a shining look. "I know, mother. I didn't hear,
of course, but I knew, when I saw him, it was for me, too. And I'm
ready. I see my way now. Mother, get Dad."

Hugh, the elder, still sleeping in his room at the far side of the
house, opened heavy eyes. Then he sprang up. "Evelyn! What is it?"

"Oh, Hugh--come! Oh, Hugh! Brock--Brock--" She could not say the words;
there was no need. Brock's father caught her hands. In bare words then
she told him.

"My dear," urged the man, "you've had a vivid dream. That's all. You
were thinking about the boys; you were only half awake; Mavourneen began