A Dream of Love

A Dream of Love short story.

"Amyce!"

My Grand Uncle interrupted me in the concluding paragraph of the Parliamentary debate which I had been reading aloud to him for the last hour; "Amyce, tell Butterworth to have the Alcove room prepared for to-morrow-I expect company."

Never before in my short life had such a direction been given to me, and I dropped the "Times" in astonishment, and glanced inquiringly up in the old man's face. If I had not stood in habitual awe of him, I should have poured forth a throng of eager questions.

We were sitting together in the old library at Cloyse Towers; my great uncle, Sir John Cloyse, a shrivelled, yellow-skinned old man, with prominent features and beady black eyes, crouching into the corner of the old-fashioned, high-backed chair which stood close to the fender: and I,-a sandy-haired girl, whose pallid face and grey eyes laid little claim to admiration,-only separated from him by a small round table on which rested a pair of ponderous silver candlesticks.