“Hobgoblins, strange and horrible shapes of pain and death, haunt my dwelling-place,” goes on her dream-friend. “True there is no unjust judge, no stupid, conceited set of jurymen, but as a terrible set-off to that relief there is no rapture—or none to speak of—in the land of dreams. You and Harry Garlett have the best of it, even now, in the waking world, Miss Jean. And now, dream happy dreams, poor child, happy, happy dreams.…”
The next morning but one Elsie was bustling about her kitchen, but ever since she had seen those pallid faces pressed against the window-pane she had left the shutters closed till after breakfast.
Soon there came the sound of milk cans jingling against one another, so she hurried into the scullery and cautiously unlocked the back door.
The milkman looked so che
