“Yes, I am—I mean, ain’t I?” she assented complacently, for his arms belied his words. “But that’s not the worst, Hobbiest—that’s not nearly the dreadfulest. When I woke up I—I wrote some—some verses about my dream. Are you awfully angry? We’ll burn them together after you read them.”
“Woman, produce those verses! I will take charge of them as ‘Exhibit A.’”
“And then you’ll beat me, please?”
“Oh, no,” said Hobby magnanimously. “That’s nothing! Pish, tush! Why, Linoleum, I feel that way about lots of girls. Molly Sullivan, now—”
“Hobby!”
“I always like to dream of Molly. One of the best companions to take along in a dream—”
“Only-est! Please don’t!”
“Well, then,” said Hobby, “I won’t—on one condition. It is to be distinctly understood under no circumstances are you ever to call me Charlie. I won’t stand for it. Dig up your accursed doggerel!”
This is what Hobby Lull read aloud, with exaggerated fervor, while Lyn huddled by the dying fire and hid her burning face in her hands:
Last night I kissed you as you slept,
For all night long I dreamed of you;
Lower and low the hearth fire crept,
The embers glowed and dimmed; we two
Heard the wind rave at bolt and door
With all the world shut out and fast,
Doubted, hoped, questioned, feared no more,
And all we sought was ours at last.
I do not love you, dear. I never loved you,
Grudged what I gave, a wayward tenderness;
Yet in my dream I wooed you with white arms
And lingering soft caress.
Now for all years to come I must remember,
When fires burn dim and low,
This false dear dream of mine, that stolen hour—
Your face of long ago.
I shall awaken in some midnight lonely,
I shall remember you as one apart,
How for one hour of dream I loved you only
And held you in my heart.
And you, through all the years since first you met me
Still let my memory gleam;
Oh, my old lover! Do not quite forget me!
I loved you—in my dream!