A VISION NOT DREAMT OF IN THE

PHILOSOPHIES.

BY BAYLIS MONTGOMERY DAWSON.

"It is by no breath,

Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation

Joins issue with death!"

I wonder why it is that story keeps so in mind-the one Aunt Abbie told. Each detail comes back so vividly!

We were sitting in our hammocks, you and I, swinging lazily, quietly enjoying the many beauties of that perfect day and scene-Elm Farm. I do not have to close my eyes to see it now: the little clouds that glisten as they float, the green fields, the woods and hills all about, and away off on the far horizon our mountains, with their familiar outlines stamped so cleanly against the lighter blue. Odors and perfumes delightfully new to city folks, of clover, grasses, flowers, all sweet and pure, filled the warm, life-giving air; and the low voice of Nature fell so soothingly, lulling every sense to dreamy ecstasy.

Then Aunt Abbie came to add the last touch. How the neat figure and kindly face harmonized with the fresh green earth, the old, weather-worn house-with the simple handiwork of Nature and man!

She told us of the clover, and where lucky sprays could be found perhaps; of the flowers, the wooded walks, the little rivulet on Elm Farm. We swung and listened while she entertained us from her store of fact and fancy, quaintly expressed in that dear dialect, a matter more of inflection and simplicity than of changed word forms. But hers was a busy life; she had "just come out for a moment and must go right back."

"Haven't you time for a story, Aunt Abbie, before you go, just one?"

No one could withstand that, so she turned back; and as the tale unfolded, our swinging hammocks slowly came to rest, the shrill voices from the grass sank into a soft accompaniment, and the glorious beauties all around be came a simple background, as all attention was held by the weird relation.

"Well, it isn't much of a story anyhow, just about my sister. She had been sick a long time. Her cough had been growing worse and worse till she was so thin and weak it made my heart ache to be near her, and she did suffer so. Everybody else knew it couldn't last much longer, but she was always saying she was getting better, and would be well soon.

"I was terribly afraid to have my sister leave us. I felt she was not ready to go. She didn't seem to be a Christian, and--I was afraid.

"This night I am telling about, I went to bed all tired out, but for a long time I couldn't get to sleep for thinking of my poor sick sister, and praying for her as I lay and tossed. Then I don't remember anything, till she came and called me. I saw her come in with a lamp. It lighted up her face, and I shall never forget how she looked-so thin and weak and sunken, all but her eyes, and they seemed to glisten as if they were burning; and her hair, that was so soft and fine, shone too in the light. She took my hand, and somehow I knew she wanted me to go with her for company. I didn't feel like saying a word, and it didn't seem strange at all to follow her out into the night. Rain had been falling, and the ground was wet and slippery. Everything was so gloomy and still! Great dark clouds seemed almost ready to fall, they looked so heavy, the woods and hills were black, and as I looked back once I saw the house, all dark but one little light in her window shining in the night. She didn't speak at all, but hurried on, clinging to my hand and pulling. I never had been over that road before, nor even seen such a country. There were no woods and no fields, only great rocks, lying all about and piled in hills.

"By and by we came to a river. It was broad and deep, because the water flowed so slowly, and made hardly any noise as it swept along. I looked back to the right, and saw the moon shining through a hole in the clouds. It looked so strange! My sister's hand felt cold, clutching mine, as she stood and looked out across to the bleak and shadowy other shore. Then I saw a little boat coming towards us swiftly. It seemed to glide along, and although the man in it was rowing, it came much faster than any man could make it go, and without a sound. I was afraid of that dark man in his black boat, and tried to pull my sister away as he stepped ashore; but she couldn't move, and didn't struggle as he took her hand and pulled her from me into the boat. He turned and started back, and then-the boat sank. I saw it go down, leaving a little whirl where it had been on

the water, and-I was alone. My sister had gone down there."

Aunt Abbie stopped, overcome by the vivid recollection of that terrible scene, then resumed, in the suppressed, awed voice which narration of the supernatural seems always to inspire.

"I stood a long time looking down at the spot where I had seen my sister go. Gradually a light began to glow and grow there. I raised my eyes to see where it came from, and right across the dark river saw-her, my sister, standing and looking at me. But it was not my sister as I had known her, for she was beautiful, glorious-all the light that made the night so bright came from her. Her face, her hair, the white robe that floated about her, shone with a light like that of little stars on a cold, clear winter night. As I stood with outstretched arms gazing at the sister I loved, the brightness seemed to grow and fill her eyes, till all that I could see was light. Staggering and blinded I fell on the river bank, and knew no more.

"In the morning my mother came to wake me. Her voice trembled as she told how my sister had gone to sleep for the last time here. But I never was afraid for her after what I had seen that night."

The good woman left us to think it over, while she made ready the midday meal.