The Argosy — page 240: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

OO Fey. i eancpsy 223 passage-room had a damp, stone floor, was lighted by a small wick floating in oil, and was pervaded by a smell of garlic. Her bed was a narrow table, her pillow her carpet-bag, and her travelling rug had to do duty for everything else. As she lay there cramped and shivering, she became gradually accustomed to the dim hght and saw an object which had escaped her notice and which looked like a coat lying across a chair. She was not long in fetching it, and, even in the semi-darkness, saw that it was a thickly-lined English ulster, probably the property of one of her fellow-passengers who, she had httle doubt, would have given much to be wearing it at that moment. She felt, however, that it was little use pitying the unlucky owner; and very grateful to him for having left it, she lay down again and spread it over her. Her teeth stopped chattering, her eyes closed, and she went off into a sound sleep. When the noises made by the awakening household began to disturb her, the following dream came to her :— She dreamt that she was engaged to be married to a not particularly young man, whose christian name was—Francis. His face madea strong impression upon her. It was not strictly handsome, but the owner had what is called a fine head. Further, he had a kindly expression and a slightly inquisitive look in his keen, gray eyes which was very characteristic. How they came to be engaged she was unable to remember, but he seemed to know her past, for he was asking her to call him Frank. “Not for the world!” she said. ‘‘I hate the name. You would not seem yourself at all. I might just as well call you Charlie or Harry.” ““We have it on very good authority that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” he answered, smiling. “Then Shakespeare was wrong,” returned the dreamer, not smiling at all. ‘“Am I to take it for granted, then, that you took me for my name and not for myself ? ” “Your name is Francis,” persisted Mabel. ‘““T am aware of it. But Francis or Frank, I am myself.” ‘“* And yourself is Francis.” But in spite of her obstinacy she got the worst of the argument, and the soft-hearted Francis, seeing signs of tears, offered to make it up. She would not, however, accept his kiss of peace, and at that moment, awoke to find herself struggling so much that she had nearly fallen off the table. The velvet collar of the ulster was lying across her mouth, its soft touch, having, no doubt, suggested that lover-like ending to her dream. At first Mabel was too bewildered to distinguish dream from reality; but the daylight streaming in at the curtainless window GoOnmlGoaooks (SO) an