"Well, Margaret, you certainly had a night of horrors," said Irene, in a sober way. "Indeed, miss, and I had; such a night as I don't wish to have again." "And your dreaming was all about me?" "Yes." "And I was always in trouble or danger?" "Yes, always; and it was mostly your own fault, too. And that reminds me of what the minister told us in his sermon last Sunday. He said that there were a great many kinds of trouble in this world--some coming from the outside and some coming from the inside; that the outside troubles, which we couldn't help, were generally easiest to be borne; while the inside troubles, which we might have prevented, were the bitterest things in life, because there was remorse as well as suffering. I understood very well what he meant." "I am afraid," said Irene, speaking partly to herself, "that most of my troubles come from the inside." "I'm afraid they do," spoke out the frank domestic. "Margaret!" "Indeed, miss, and I do think so. If you'd only get right here"--laying her hand upon her breast--"somebody beside yourself would be a great deal happier. There now, child, I've said it; and you needn't go to getting angry with me." "They are often our best friends who use the plainest speech," said Irene. "No, Margaret, I am not going to be angry with one whom I know to be true-hearted." "Not truer-hearted than your husband, Miss Irene; nor half so loving." "Why did you say that?" Margaret started at the tone of voice in which this interrogation was made. "Because I think so," she answered naively. Irene looked at her for some moments with a penetrating gaze, and then said, with an affected carelessness of tone-- "Your preacher and your dreams have made you quite a moralist."