"I can understand that. But how did you dream of Golden Cloud, Dan? You dreamed of him as if he was alive"--
"At first I did; but afterwards I saw him in the flower-pot, dead."
"And Golden Cloud chirruped to you?"
"Yes, Jo."
"Think again, Dan. Golden Cloud was dead, and Golden Cloud chirruped to you!"
"Yes, Jo," faltered Dan, beginning to understand the drift of Joshua's remarks.
"That is not dreaming of things as they are, Dan," said Joshua gently, taking Dan's hand and patting it. "If you could dream of Golden Cloud as he is now, you would see nothing of him but a few bones--feathers and flesh all turned to clay. Not a chirrup in him, Dan dear, not a chirrup!"
Dan covered his eyes with his hand, and the tears came through his fingers, But he soon recovered himself.
"You are right, Jo," he said: "yet I'm not quite wrong. The man who wrote that book knew things, depend upon it. He was not a fool. I was, to think I could do such wonders in so short a time."
Dan showed, in the last sentence, that he did not intend to relinquish his desire. He said nothing more about it, however, and in a few minutes the pair of bullfinches were on the table in a little cage, whistling, "Rule, Britannia," the high notes of which one of the birds took with consummate ease.