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SKETCHES.
—_~—
MY DREAM.
I wap last night a strange dream. I fancied that I was
in Stockholm. It was evening. I was expecting visitors:
I was just going to dress to receive them, and I went for
this purpose through the dining-room, when the door
opened, and my good old friend Eric Reuterborg entered,
elegantly dressed, his hair speckled with gray, curled ina
toupet on the forehead exactly as when he was alive. I
became alarmed, for I was well aware that he had been
dead three years. But I was pleased, nevertheless, for the
thought suddenly crossed my brain—think if he is not
really dead! and doubtful and astonished, I went to meet
him, asking: “ Is it possible! Are you not—” “ Reuter-
borg?” he answered in a friendly and cheerful tone; “ yes,
it is.”
An indescribable feeling of awe seized me, while we
went into the drawing-room together. 1 remembered
having seen him in his coffin ; remembered the cold, sad
expression in his face which had succeeded that of kindness
and open-heartedness; remembered how I had placed
flowers at his feet, and put hyacinths in his cold, bluish
hand, which drooped their heads upon his breast; and
afterwards I had planted flowers upon his grave. Yes, he
was indeed dead, and that which I now beheld was his
ghost. While these memories passed before me, I stared
at the form which now stood beside me, and I drew timidly
back while I said: “ But how — how is it possible?”
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