it seemed like a sub-consciousness, yet he
found no name for this friendly odor for a
bewildered minute or two. Little by little,
however, it grew upon him, that it was the
onion -- that fragrant and kindly bulb which
had attained its apotheosis in the cuisine of
Nora Finnegan of sacred memory. He opened
his languid eyes, to see if, mayhap, the plant
had not attained some more palpable mate-
rialization.

Behold, it was so! Before him, in a brown
earthen dish, -- a most familiar dish, -- was an
onion, pearly white, in placid seas of gravy,
smoking and delectable. With unexpected
strength he raised himself, and reached for
the dish, which floated before him in a halo
made by its own steam. It moved toward
him, offered a spoon to his hand, and as he
ate he heard about the room the rustle of
Nora Finnegan's starched skirts, and now and
then a faint, faint echo of her old-time laugh
-- such an echo as one may find of the sea in
the heart of a shell.

The noble bulb disappeared little by little
before his voracity, and in contentment
greater than virtue can give, he sank back
upon his pillow and slept.