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plexed look came in her eyes and her father took
her hand and stroked it soothingly.

“Tell me if you want to, Betty; but it would
keep.”

“It’s about some cut-out ladies, and some
papers,” the sick child smiled at him rather
vaguely. “In my dreams I remembered, at
least, I think I saw where I put them, and
Mully said they were important.” Her voice
was so faint and her words so strange that
Fred Wilfer felt a fear that her mind was
wandering again. |

“There! Go to sleep, Betty.”

But after a moment’s pause she spoke again,
more clearly. ‘You must listen, Papa, because
it might be true, mightn’t it? In my dream
I seemed to be in the conservatory in the dear
old house in the Park, and I was cutting out
paper ladies. Then Jim came, and I put them
away in a funny kind of box-hole in a corner
under the tiles. I’ve tried so often to remember
where I put those paper ladies, Papa, and I
never could. Don’t you think it was funny of
me to dream about them?”

“Very funny dear.” But he was more con-
cerned about Betty herself than about her

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