"The worst kind."

"Well, then, you sit down and wait here by yourself for about an hour,
and maybe you shall;" and the women were off upstairs.

At length there was a rustling on the stairway, and she re-entered the
room, all sheeny white in lustrous satin. Behind the gauzy veil that fell
from the coronal of dark brown hair adown the shoulders her face shone
with a look he had never seen in it. It was no longer the mirthful,
self-reliant girl who stood before him, but the shrinking, trustful
bride. The flashing, imperious expression that so well became her bold
beauty at other times had given place to a shy and blushing softness,
inexpressibly charming to her lover. In her shining eyes a host of
virginal alarms were mingled with the tender, solemn trust of love.

As he gazed, his eyes began to swim with tenderness, and her face grew
dim and misty to his vision. Then her white dress lost its sheen and
form, and he found himself staring at the white window-shade of his
bedroom, through which the morning light was peering. Startled,
bewildered, he raised himself on his elbow in bed. Yes, he was in bed. He
looked around, mechanically taking note of one and another familiar
feature of the apartment to make sure of his condition. There, on the
stand by his bedside, lay his open watch, still ticking, and indicating
his customary hour of rising. There, turned on its face, lay that dry
book on electricity he had been reading himself to sleep with. And there,
on the bureau, was the white paper that had contained the morphine
sleeping powder which he took before going to bed. That was what had made
him dream. For some of it must have been a dream! But how much of it was
a dream? Re must think. That was a dream certainly about her wedding
dress. Yes, and perhaps--yes, surely--that must be a dream about her