“I left you alone,” he said. “You had to go through it, your slough of despond. It lies across every path—that leads to anywhere. Clear of it?”
“I think so,” I replied, smiling.
“You are on the high road,” he continued. “You have only to walk steadily. Sure you have left nothing behind you—in the slough?”
“Nothing worth bringing out of it,” I said. “Why do you ask so seriously?”
He laid his hand upon my head, rumpling my hair, as in the old days.
“Don't leave him behind you,” he said; “the little boy Paul—Paul the dreamer.”
I laughed. “Oh, he! He was only in my way.”
“Yes, here,” answered Dan. “This is not his world. He is of no use to you here; won't help you to bread and cheese—no, nor kisses either. But keep him near you. Later, you will find, perhaps, that all along he has been the real Paul—the living, growing Paul; the other—the active, worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams are made of, his fretful life a troubled night rounded by a sleep.”
“I have been driving him away,” I said. “He is so—so impracticable.”
Dan shook his head gravely. “It is not his world,” he repeated. “We must eat, drink—be husbands, fathers. He does not understand. Here he is the child. Take care of him.”