"Yes," said Walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing."

"What is?" asked Ernest, who had been dreaming over the Sphinx that was looking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousand years.

"How our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day."

"On the contrary," remarked Reginald, "it would be strange if they were still to know us. In fact, it would be unnatural. The skies above us and the earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. Each atom of our physical nature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. Change is identical with life."

"It sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated like water."

"Why not, under favorable conditions?"

"But where do they go? Surely they cannot perish utterly?"

"Yes, that is the question. Or, rather, it is not a question. Nothing is ever lost in the spiritual universe."

"But what," inquired Ernest, "is the particular reason for your reflection?"

"It is this," the sculptor replied; "I had a striking motive and lost it."

"Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus I was working on the last time when you called at my studio?"

"Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though I cannot recall it at the moment."