Then that misty, shadowy picture was gone, and another took its place.
He saw himself at home, sitting in a low chair before a coal fire, with his chin in his hand. His Aunt Joan stood beside him. She was crying, and she kept patting his head.
“You’re a brave boy, not to cry,” she said to him, over and over. “You’re a brave boy not to cry.”
At the same time, she wept bitterly.
Barnard, in his dream, had no desire to cry. He was puzzled and uneasy; he groped for understanding.
Understanding came with a last glimpse of the baby’s face in the omnibus, and The Threat gliding above, and then he saw in his dream a bit of yellow paper, and on it, written in a long, flowing, telegrapher’s hand, the words:
“Rob died today at noon.”
He understood that Rob was his baby brother; and he understood, from that time forward, the nature of The Threat....
III
Thus, his dream, even while he was still a boy in it, was always disturbing and perplexing. He was uneasy, rebellious. He chafed and suffered and could not find relief. The dream world was hostile and mocking, full of inscrutable forces which were stronger than himself.