A STRANGE DREAM.
My mother and I stopped up talking until very late on this night. The future was not mentioned; all our talk was of the past. My mother recalled the reminiscences of her younger days, and dwelt upon them with affection. She drew pictures of her home when she was a girl, and told me a great deal concerning her parents, and especially concerning my grandmother, of whom my own impressions were so vivid. As though she were living her life over again, she travelled from those days gradually to the day upon which she first saw my father, and in tender tones related many incidents of their courtship which I had never before heard. She required a great deal of coaxing before she would speak of her courting days, but I led her on artfully from one thing to another, and listened to her with delight. On such occasions as this my mother seemed to grow twenty years younger; her face grew fresher, rounder, and in her eyes the soft light of youth lived again. Then came the description of her wedding-day, and she laughed or grew pensive as she recalled the names of those who were present, stopping occasionally, until I said, 'Yes, mother, and then,'--upon which she took up my words, saying, 'And then, my dear,'--and proceeded with her descriptions. When, in the course of her narration, I came into the world, I was able to take a larger share in the conversation, and I added my experience to hers. We were by turns grave and merry, according to the nature of our reminiscences. My grandmother's peculiarities, her death, the search for the long stocking, and the picture of Snaggletooth ripping open the beds and the armchairs, and sitting on the floor with his hair full of feathers; then on to my father's burial, and my illness, and the removal farther and farther away from our native town until we found ourselves in London--scarcely anything, except what was painful, was left unspoken of.
'And there's an end to it all, mother,' I said, when we had brought the reminiscences up to the very night upon which we were conversing.
'No, my dear,' she replied, with a tender shake of her head, not an end; there are brighter pages to come in my darling's life.'
'Do you know, mother,' I said, as I stood by her side at the door of her bedroom, 'I have often thought of grandmother's long stocking, and fancied that one day we should find a treasure somewhere.'
My mother laughed.
'Why, my dear, where on earth would you look for it? We have not a thing left that belonged to your grandmother.'
'Yes, we have; you don't forget that brown monkey-man that used to stand on the mantelshelf and wag its head at us?'
'I remember it perfectly, dear child; you don't mean to say you have kept it all this time?'
'It is in my box now; I shall take it out to-night, and have a look at it.'