-{ TO CARIBOO AND BACK }--

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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