“Why?”
“I would interrupt you.”
She leaned close to him and looked up forgivingly.
“I was not angry, but I don’t want you to go away and leave me for so long. I—I——”
“What is it?”
She turned her head away, then answered guiltily.
“I dreamed something that I cannot forget. If I only had not dreamed it,” she cried as she snuggled closer to him.
“It is nothing,” he added reassuringly.
“Yes; I know,” she answered, “that you will call this dream just some airy tapestry of sleep, strangely woven, perhaps, and hued, but still the gauzy slumber-work of my foolish mind, which in waking hours I should see plainly through; and yet—I cannot—won’t you let me tell it to you?”
She put her little hand in his and looked up imploringly, then nestling closer, she continued with naïve intentness: