“It was the first time I had ever been in any 236 kind of woods,” she explained, “and it was the first time I had ever played with a grown-up boy. For a long time afterward, when I teased mother for a story, she would tell me of ‘The Day Carey Met David.’”
“And do you remember nothing more about that day?”
“Oh, yes; you made us some little chairs out of red sticks, and you drew me here in a cart.”
“Can’t you remember when you first laid eyes on me?”
“No––yes, I remember. You drove a funny old horse, and I saw you coming when I was waiting at the gate.”
“Yes, you were at the gate,” he echoed, with a caressing note in his voice. “You were dressed in white, as you are to-day, and that was my first glimpse of the little princess. And because she was the only one I had ever known, I thought of her for years as a princess of my imagination who had no real existence.”
“But afterwards,” she asked wistfully, “you didn’t think of me as an imaginary person, did you?” 237
“Yes; you were hardly a reality until––”
“Until the convention?” she asked disappointedly.
“No; before that. It was in South America, when I began to write my book, that you came to life and being in my thoughts. The tropical land, the brilliant sunshine, the purple nights, the white stars, the orchids, the balconies looking down upon fountained courts, all invoked you. You answered, and crept into my book, and while we––you and I––were writing it, it came to me suddenly and overwhelmingly that the little princess was a living, breathing person, a woman who mayhap would read my book some day and feel that it belonged to her. It was so truly hers that I did not think it necessary to write the dedication page. And she did read the book and she did know––didn’t she?”