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"Tut! tut!" replied Sister Soulsby, "that's all right, you dear thing. I know just how you feel. Don't dream of being under obligation to explain it to me, or to thank us at all. We've had all sorts of comfort out of the thing Soulsby and I. We used to get downright lonesome, here all by ourselves, and we've simply had a winter of pleasant company instead, that s all.
There seems to be nothing to do." Then I thought, in my dream, that another year had passed, and I came again to the same town, and wended my way to the place of meeting where I had been aforetime. Meeting a gentleman near the door I asked him if the Union still met there. "Oh," said he, "the W.C.T.U. That died out months ago.
I have been in a dream, she said; I feel as if all my strength were in this arm; give me your hand! She took my right hand in her left, which looked soft and white enough, but Good Heaven! I believe she will crack my bones!
"No, no!" he exclaimed; "it may, or may not, be all very well on a high road, where people expect such things when they see a parcel of schoolboys together, and if they don't like it, will not stand on ceremony about heaving stones in return; but in a country district they take us for young gentlemen, and would never dream of throwing anything at us in return.
That impulse to decide, that vague sense of being able to achieve the unattempted, that dream of aerial unlimited movement at will without feet or wings, which were once but the joyous mounting of young sap, are already taking shape as unalterable woody fibre: the impulse has hardened into "style," and into a pattern of peremptory sentences; the sense of ability in the presence of other men's failures is turning into the official arrogance of one who habitually issues directions which he has never himself been called on to execute; the dreamy buoyancy of the stripling has taken on a fatal sort of reality in written pretensions which carry consequences.
"Forgot? No, no. How can you ask such a question? You shall be my dear Emily still!" "Ah, those were happy times!" she replied, a little mournfully. "Do you know, cousin, I wish I could wake, and find that the last month only about a month was a dream?" "What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Tyrrel with an altered voice. "Have a care! Do not put me out of humour.
The porter knew by his accent that he was a Londoner, but did not dream that he was "a gentleman from Scotland Yard."
If, as you say, there is a course of reading, it would be sufficiently literary, I suppose? At present we are taking up psycho-analysis dreams, you know. It was not my choice. As a subject for club study I consider it too modern. Besides, I seldom dream. And when I do, my dreams are not remarkable. However, it seems that all dreams are remarkable. And I admit that there may be something in it.
The church bell was tolling; they could see the little congregation pass across the churchyard into that weekly dream they knew too well. And presently the drone emerged, mingling with the voices outside, of sighing trees and trickling water, of the rub of wings, birds' songs, and the callings of beasts everywhere beneath the sky.
"Yes, I have awakened, and my life here is like a dream. Sit down, Peter; I want to ask you some questions." For half an hour they sat together, the younger man asking questions, the other answering in as few words as possible, his keen eyes never leaving the face of his interlocutor. "Where is this John Britton?" the young man finally inquired. "In Ophir at a place called The Pines."
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