I said this because everybody considers it the right answer to give to a child; but I do believe just a little in dreams myself.
She went on gravely—
“But mine do. I’ll tell you about one I had two nights ago, if you’ll bend your head and let me whisper. I mustn’t tell mamma, because she always stops me and says I mustn’t speak of what I see; but I can say it to you; you won’t tell, will you?”
“No, darling, I won’t tell,” said I, thinking it kindest to let the child speak out about her fancies, instead of brooding over them, as the shy little thing was too prone to do.
She put her little hand up to my cheek, and, drawing down my face to hers, breathed into my ear, in the very faintest, softest whisper I have ever heard—
“You know that day when we took you up to your new room in the turret?”
“Yes, dear,” said I.
“Hush! Whisper,” cooed she. “Well, that night Jane put me to bed, just as she always does, in my little room, and then I went to sleep just like I always do. And then I dreamt that I heard mamma screaming and crying, and papa speaking—oh, so differently from the way he generally does; it made me frightened in my dream! I thought it was all real, and I tried to get out of bed; but I was too much asleep; and then I didn’t dream any more, only when I woke up I remembered it. I didn’t tell anybody; and the next night I wondered if I should have the dream again, and I didn’t want Jane to go away; and, when I said it was because I’d had a dream, she said dreams were stuff and nonsense, and she wanted to go and dream at having supper. And then she went away, and I went to sleep. And then I woke up because mamma was crying, and I thought at first it was my dream again; but I knocked my head against the rail of my bed, and then I knew I must be awake. And I got out of bed, and I went quite softly to the door and looked through the keyhole, for there was a light in her room. When she has a light, I can see in quite plainly through the keyhole, and I can see the bed and her lying in it. But she wasn’t alone like she generally is—I could see papa’s hand holding the candle, and he was talking to her in such a low voice; but she was crying and talking quite wildly and strangely, so that she frightened me. When she talks like that, I feel afraid—it doesn’t seem as if she were mamma. And then I saw papa put something on her face, and mamma said, ‘Don’t—don’t! Not that!’ and then she only moaned, and then she was quite still, and I heard him go out of the room. And presently I called ‘Mamma, mamma!’ but she didn’t answer; and I was so frightened, I thought she was dead. But then I heard her sigh like she always does in her sleep, and I got into bed again.”
“Were you afraid to go in, darling?”
“I couldn’t go in, because the door was locked. It always is, you know. I never go into mamma’s room; I did only once, and she said—she said”—and the child’s soft whisper grew softer still, and she held her tiny lips closer to my ear—“she said I was never to say anything about it—and I promised; so I mustn’t, even to you, Miss Christie dear. You don’t mind, do you, because I promised?”