"I see in you, Nelly," she continued dreamily, "an aged woman: you have grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under Penistone Crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers; pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That's what you'll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I'm not wandering: you're mistaken, or else I should believe you really _were_ that withered hag, and I should think I _was_ under Penistone Crags; and I'm conscious it's night, and there are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet."
"The black press? where is that?" I asked. "You are talking in your sleep!"
"It's against the wall, as it always is," she replied. "It _does_ appear odd-I see a face in it!"

'I see in you, Nelly,' she continued dreamily, 'an aged woman, with grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under Penistone crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our cattle; pretending that they are only locks of wool. That's what you'll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I'm not wandering: I know it's night, and there are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet.'
'The black press? where is that?' I asked. 'You are talking in your sleep!'
'It's against the wall, as it always is,' she replied. 'It does appear odd - I see a face in it!'
