For a long time the old man sat and dreamed, dreamed of a woman, sweet, in the long ago days when he was young and she was beautiful, dreamed of that time when a little child, with light golden hair, had been born to them, and of their happiness and joy. Then later, when the first shadow fell upon the home and the gentle spirit of his wife took flight and left him.
Then, after that, he had but the little girl, and she had lived and reigned in his heart for sixteen short years, and had gone like a shade of night, but it had been a great deal his own fault. Why did he not overlook the foolish step and try to make something of her husband? As he sat there he slumbered slightly, and then over his mind came a scene of the past. A child, with long curls, flitted before him, and he saw her flying away over the lawn and once in a while she looked back at him, her eyes smiling sweetly and the tiny hand shaking him a farewell, and then another dream as sweet as the last one flitted close upon his brain.
A dignified girl, in a white dress, sat beside him, and he heard his own voice say:
“Tell me, Annie, is there anything I can do to make you happy?” and before he could stop her he saw her fading away and dissolving into the shadows upon the wall.
He lifted his hands and gave a great groan.
“Annie,” murmured he, “come back to your father.”
“What is the matter, uncle?” shouted George Benson. “Why do you mutter in your sleep? There, wake up, a dream is only a dream anyway.”
The old man sat up thoughtfully, and with tears in his eyes said:
“I dreamed that Annie was here, George, and, oh, I want my child, I want my child.”
Impatiently George Benson sat down, for he had not patience with this imbecile old man.