“How did you sleep, darling?” said I, sitting on the bed and kissing her.
“Oh, beautifully, Miss Christie! I hardly ever woke up once, and when I did I watched the beautiful fire; I could just see it when I lay with my head so. It is so nice and warm up here. I wish mamma was up here; I should like to be up here always. I think I should have nice dreams up here, not like the ones I have downstairs.”
And she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the thought of something.
“You shall stay up here till you are quite well again, darling,” said I, inwardly resolving to beg that she might sleep in my room permanently.
“Miss Christie, you know you dream sometimes with your eyes wide open, just as if you were awake? I dreamt a dream like that last night.”
“That was because you were ill, darling. When people are ill, they dream like that.”
“Do they—quite plain, like as if it was all quite real?”
“Yes; sometimes they think they see people and talk to people.”
“That was like my dream. I dreamt it was while I was looking at the fire that the door there opened quite gently and softly, just as if it moved quite of itself, and then I saw papa’s face, and he had in his hand something red and sparkling; and, just when the door came quite wide open, I thought I sat up in bed, and he looked at me. And then the door seemed to shut quite softly again, and I didn’t hear anything—and that was all.”
“That wasn’t really a dream, darling. It was just a fancy because you were ill.”