“And look at that sweet pink cloud below it,” added Felicity.
“Maybe that little pink cloud is a dream, getting all ready to float down into somebody’s sleep,” suggested the Story Girl.
“I had a perfectly awful dream last night,” said Cecily, with a shudder of remembrance. “I dreamed I was on a desert island inhabited by tigers and natives with two heads.”
“Oh!” the Story Girl looked at Cecily half reproachfully. “Why couldn’t you tell it better than that? If I had such a dream I could tell it so that everybody else would feel as if they had dreamed it, too.”
“Well, I’m not you,” countered Cecily, “and I wouldn’t want to frighten any one as I was frightened. It was an awful dream—but it was kind of interesting, too.”
“I’ve had some real int’resting dreams,” said Peter, “but I can’t remember them long. I wish I could.”
“Why don’t you write them down?” suggested the Story Girl. “Oh—” she turned upon us a face illuminated with a sudden inspiration. “I’ve an idea. Let us each get an exercise book and write down all our dreams, just as we dream them. We’ll see who’ll have the most interesting collection. And we’ll have them to read and laugh over when we’re old and gray.”
Instantly we all saw ourselves and each other by inner vision, old and gray—all but the Story Girl. We could not picture her as old. Always, as long as she lived, so it seemed to us, must she have sleek brown curls, a voice like the sound of a harpstring in the wind, and eyes that were stars of eternal youth.