"Did it ever occur to you that it might not be at all pleasant for you to know? They love you and they want you to be happy."
She paled. "I had never thought of that. I had never thought of that—oh, why didn't I think of it!"
"Elsie," I said, taking her hand in mine, and drawing her to me as I had when she was a child, and I her big brother, "you have no better friend than I. Tell me what it is that is troubling you?"
"You would hate me, Jack," she said, looking up quickly into my face with great, earnest eyes.
"Hate you? Nonsense," and I laughed, pinching her ear. "Tell me," I pleaded, smiling.
"Nay, nay, bide a wee—bide a wee," she said abstractedly falling into her childhood's dialect as she so often did when she forgot. "And first," she went on, "why, first I'd have to kind of explain it, Jack; but it is like this now: suppose one was not satisfied with one's lot and had those feelings I have been telling you of."
I nodded.
"And suppose—now this is the worst of it—now suppose one really loved another—one found one's soul dream," she paused, blushing.
"Soul dreams, Elsie, ay, I think I understand," I said. "I too have them—they are the great, unattainable things of our life. Do you know I think that their being unattainable is what makes them great?"
She looked up. "If it is worth so much—this unattainable thing—why then does it hurt so?"