"I have had it," said Dorothea in a sepulchral whisper. "The
vision. Oh," she turned dramatically from the instant question,
"I can't bear to tell you!--It was about you."
"Dorothea, you've GOT to tell me! I think you're HORRID. I'm
going right downstairs to tell your mother."
"Of course I'm going to tell you," said the sybil crossly. She
resumed her chest tones hurriedly. "I must tell you. It was sent
to me to tell you. I wanted to prepare you."
"Prepare? Oh, Dorothea, what WAS it?"
Dorothea stood upright on the bed, and her eyes assumed the
expression of those that see inward--Jennie stared at her,
hypnotized, breathless.
"I saw a room," chanted the inspired one, "a room in a large
city. I can see it now. It is a bedroom. There are blue rugs on
the floor, and the furniture is oak. It has two windows. There is
a canary bird in one, and the other has a seat with blue
cushions."
"Why, that is my mother's room, Dorothea! You know it is."
"In the bed a woman is lying. She is sick. She is turning from
one side to the other--she says, `Oh, where is my daughter? I
want my daughter! Why doesn't she come back to me?'"
"Oh, Dorothea!" Jennie, tearful and excited, began to draw on her
clothes.
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