In the strange fantastic manner of
dreams he seemed to be a very little child, whose light warm weight
lay along her arms, close to the heart above which he had pressed
those burning kisses. It was bitter cold; but the whole scene was like
a picture of winter. She could not feel it--she could feel nothing but
the aching of her own heart, the warm breath growing ever warmer, and
the clinging hands, clinging ever closer, of the child she loved. The
sense of delicious languor changed to a feeling of heaviness--almost
suffocation. Every golden hair of the head upon her breast pierced her
like a ray of brightest sunshine. Hastily putting him from her she
fled away with the wintry winds, herself as wild and swift and
soulless as they. But presently coming to look for the child, and
unable to find him, she realized that he was lost, and then she woke,
trembling with deep, tearless sobs.
"What is it, my dearest?" called Madame DeBerczy from the next room.
"Nothing, mother, dear, but a troubled dream."
"Ah, it is the excitement of these late hours. Try to sleep again."
But Helene could sleep no more.
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