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Many a night, when Guzzy's soul and body should have been taking their rest, they roamed in company up and down the quiet street on which the Wyetts' cottage was located, and Guzzy's eyes, instead of being fixed on sweet pictures in dreamland, gazed vigilantly in the direction of Mrs. Wyett's gate.

'Then, in the moonlight, the gleam of white flowing garments, the nervous thrill breathed in from perfumes filling the evening air; the great swimming eyes; the kiss; the ah! other bottles of sherry. The fingans of coffee, the pipe of Latakiah tobacco, the blowing a cloud into dreamland, while Fatima or Zoe insists on taking a puff with you.

So Maud abode in peace with her maids at the seaside cottage, spending the still hours of Dreamland between her rose-garden on the sunny slope to the southward and the conservatory of lily-like nuns on the hill toward the sea.

We had, of course, only reached this billet about dawn, so without wasting any time over such niceties as washing we bundled our clothes into a sort of pillow in the head of our "Wolseleys" and drew from the depths of that wondrous combination of a valise and bed that luxury of luxuries on active service, a pair of pyjamas, and were soon dozing comfortably in dreamland.

"Ah, dear!" he cried, "you have made us too beautiful; you have wandered off again to dreamland yes, as in the days, do you remember, when I used to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers of the Unknown?" And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic parterre of the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil of paradise. But she protested gayly.

In these dusky avenues youth and maiden tell each other Love's eternal story, wandering away into the dreamland shadows, vocal with sweeter melody than that of bird or breeze. The musical call of the nutmeg-pigeon serves as a danger-signal, uttered by sympathising friends, when love must yield to life's stern realities in the person of the overseer.

"Well, it sent me into dreamland over again," Billy sighed. "An' when I come to, here was Bud an' Anson an' Jackson dousin' me at a water trough. An' then we dodged a reporter an' all come home together." Bud Strothers held up his fist and indicated freshly abraded skin. "The reporter-guy just insisted on samplin' it," he said.

His taste acknowledged the beauty of form which clothed them; his heart envied the ideal that inspired them. But they seemed so remote from him; they put the dreamland of the writer farther and farther from his workday real life. In this frame of mind, then, he had written to Savarin, and the answer he received hardened it still more.

I know there are those who wish they could always remain children, living in dreamland. But even if this were desirable, it is not possible. Evolution is our destiny; of what use is it, then, to take up arms against destiny? Let it be borne in mind that all the religions of the world were born in the childhood of the race. Science was not born until man had matured.

Sleep was always in pursuit of him, and would catch him up at the most unexpected moments when he was at play, or indeed at any time. Emmeline would sometimes find him with a coloured shell or bit of coral that he had been playing with in his hand fast asleep, a happy expression on his face, as if his mind were pursuing its earthly avocations on some fortunate beach in dreamland.