“Ah,” said my companion, “why do you think of that so much? I fear you are not quite heart whole. What was there peculiar about the voice?”
“Margaret, it was the most exquisite music anyone ever dreamed of. I cannot describe my emotions or the intensity of my enjoyment whenever I heard it. First the voice belonged to a beautiful girl whom I thought we met on the moon, and who talked only in the language of the birds. Then she went to Mars with us, and there I heard the same sweet voice also from one of the noble women of that happy planet.
“Oh, what queer things we do in our sleep, and how supremely selfish a dreamer is. I once had a theory that we are all responsible for the character of our dreams, but I hope, my dear, that you will not call me to too strict an account in this case, I should blush to tell you how I loved each singer, and yet I know now it was only the voice that charmed me. I shall seek my pillow with delight to-night, to try and catch in my sleep some faint echo of that song, for I never expect to hear its like in my waking hours. You are laughing at me, and I don’t wonder. Let me see. I dreamed that I dreamed that you and Mona and Avis were all one grand, sweet singer. I wonder what would have happened if I had staid there long enough to tell Avis something that was on my mind. Perhaps I never should have come away.
“But forgive me, dear Margaret, for my enthusiasm for simply a memory, and put the blame on my sensitive ears. And now, tell me what you have been doing during these long hours. Did you find the professor and get your book?”
“Yes, but I had to stay a few minutes and hear him talk. I hurried back, however, to be with you, and for my reward found you fast asleep.”
“I was only dozing. But what did you do then?”
“Oh, I sat quiet for a while, and then took up the amusement I usually follow when I find myself alone.”
“What is that? Pray tell.”
“Singing, of course.”
“Singing?”