(If this were so it must have been in his dreams, for he was an exceptionally sound sleeper, as Nansie well knew, by reason of her own mind being really disturbed by thoughts of the future.)
"What will have to be decided is what I am fit for and what I can do, and the thing then is," and Kingsley looked pleasantly around, as though he were addressing an audience, "to go and do it. Yes," he repeated, "to go and do it. You cannot deny, Nansie, my darling, that that is the practical way to go about it."
"Yes, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, with fond admiration, "that is the practical way."
"To buy another caravan," pursued Kingsley, "and a horse, and to fit it up comfortably with chairs and tables and beds, an easy-chair for you, my dear, and one for me; and a little library of books, and a piano--because there is nothing so pleasant on a beautiful evening in the woods, when the birds have settled in their nests and all nature is hushed and still, preparing by needful repose for the joyous life of to-morrow; there is nothing, I say, so pleasant as to sit by the side of a dear little wife while she plays the airs one loves best--but I am afraid there would not be room for a piano."
"I am afraid not, dear," said Nansie, humoring him.
"It is a pity. If it were too warm--being summer, my dear Nansie--to sit inside the caravan, we might move the piano into the open, where you could charm the birds from their nests. They could not resist the temptation of coming out to listen to the concert, and perhaps join in. Now, that would form a pretty picture. A gifted fellow could almost write verses on it. But it is not to be thought of, Nansie, is it?--I mean the piano, not the verses."
"I am afraid not, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, into whose heart was stealing a kind of pity--pity which had no terrors in it, but rather nerved her to courage, and was the germ of a new teaching in her gentle nature.
"I think you must admit, my dear," said Kingsley, taking her hand and patting it softly, "that the moment I perceive an idea, however enticing it may be, is not practical, I send it to the right about. As I do the piano. Away it goes, and I take off my hat to it with regret."
There was something so kindly and humorous in his speech, and in the expressions and gestures which accompanied it, that Nansie did not have the heart to check it or to dispute it with him.
"We should have to do without the piano, then; but it is hardly possible to live without music. Well, we could go to a church, or, better still, to a cathedral. That could easily be managed, for we could so arrange as to halt for the night near a cathedral town, and if we were a little late starting off the next day, it would not so much matter, our time being our own. Then, it might happen--stranger things happen, my dear, and in discussing a matter it is only fair to look at it from every aspect--it might happen that we hear of a concert to be given in a hall a dozen or twenty miles away. Away trots the horse at six or seven miles an hour--that would not be overworking it--and we arrive in time. I run into the town or city, or perhaps we pass through it, and I take tickets. We dress--properly, you know, Nansie--I in my swallowtail and white tie, you in your prettiest evening-dress, and off we start arm-in-arm. A fine evening, a pleasant walk of a mile, a most beautiful concert which we enjoy, and then the walk home, with stars and moon overhead, and the clouds forming a panorama of exquisite colors in lace-work through the branches of the trees. That is what I call true enjoyment, which, however, only lovers can properly appreciate. Would it not be perfect, Nansie?"