Her voice, this time, was not at all thick, but soft and clear, and so unhappy it woke me properly and I looked for her face. I could not see it. The little rush-light that she always kept lit must have fallen against its shade, or burned itself out. The curtains were down, as they always were. I think it was three or four o''clock. The bed was dark, like a box. Her breath came out of the darkness. It struck my mouth.
"What is it?'' I said.
She said, ''I dreamed— I dreamed I was married
I turned my head. Then her breath came against my ear. Too loud, it seemed, in the silence. I moved my head again. I said,
''Well, you shall be married, soon, for real.''
''Shall I?''
''You know you shall. Now, go back to sleep.''
But, she would not. I felt her lying, still but very stiff. I felt the beating of her heart. At last she said again, in a whisper: ''Sue—''
''What is it, miss?''
She wet her mouth. ''Do you think me good?'' she said.
She said it, as a child might. The words unnerved me rather. I turned again, and peered into the darkness, to try and make out her face.
''Good, miss?'' I said, as I squinted.
''You do,'' she said unhappily.
''Of course!''
''I wish you wouldn''t. I wish I wasn''t. I wish— I wish I was wise.''
''I wish you were sleeping,'' I thought. But I did not say it. What I said was, ''Wise? Aren''t you wise? A girl like you, that has read all those books of your uncle''s?''