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III

  • Did she sleep? Dream? Who knows? Emily herself never knew. Twice before in her
  • life—once in delirium*—once in sleep** she had drawn aside the veil of sense
  • and time and seen beyond. Emily never liked to remember those experiences. She
  • forgot them deliberately. She had not recalled them for years. A dream—a fancy
  • fever-bred. But this?
  • * See  _Emily of New Moon._  ** See  _Emily Climbs._
  • A small cloud seemed to shape itself within the gazing-ball. It
  • dispersed—faded. But the reflected doll's-house in the ball was gone. Emily
  • saw an entirely different scene—a long lofty room filled with streams of
  • hurrying people—and among them a face she knew.
  • The gazing-ball was gone—the room in the Disappointed House was gone. She was
  • no longer sitting in her chair looking on. She was  _in_  that strange, great
  • room—she was among those throngs of people—she was standing by the man who was
  • waiting impatiently before a ticket-window. As he turned his face and their
  • eyes met she saw that it was Teddy—she saw the amazed recognition in his eyes.
  • And she knew, indisputably that he was in some terrible danger—and that  _she_
  • must save him.
  • "Teddy.  _Come."_
  • It seemed to her that she caught his hand and pulled him away from the window.
  • Then she was drifting back from him—back—back—and he was following—running
  • after her—heedless of the people he ran into—following—following—she was back
  • on the chair—outside of the gazing-ball—in it she still saw the station-room
  • shrunk again to play-size—and that one figure running—still running—the cloud
  • again—filling the ball—whitening—wavering—thinning—clearing. Emily was lying
  • back in her chair staring fixedly into Aunt Nancy's gazing-ball, where the
  • living-room was reflected calmly and silverly, with a dead-white spot that was
  • her face and one solitary taper-light twinkling like an impish star.