"That was partly what was in my mind," he said at last. "Such lots of thinkings have come since yesterday, Chrissie—you'd hardly believe. I was thinking that supposing I could never run about, or do things like other boys, what a trouble I'd be to everybody, and no good."
"I don't think you need think of things that way," said his sister. "Papa and mamma love you too much ever to think you a trouble, and I'm sure you could be of good somehow. But I don't think you should begin puzzling about things when you're really not better yet; you'll make your head ache, and then they might think it was my fault. Oh, Ferdy," suddenly, "I had such a funny dream last night."
"I dreamt something too," said Ferdy, "but I couldn't remember what it was. It was something about—"
"Mine was about birds," interrupted Christine, "about the swallows who have a nest just over the oriel window. I thought—"
"How very funny!" exclaimed Ferdy, interrupting in his turn, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I do believe mine was too. I knew it was about birds, but I couldn't get hold of the rest of it. And now I seem to remember more, and I know I was thinking about those swallows when I fell asleep. I was wishing I could understand what they mean when they twitter and chirp. Tell me your dream, Chris; perhaps it'll make me remember mine."
Christine was delighted to see that Ferdy's thoughts were turned from melancholy things—only—there was something about him in her dream. She hoped it wouldn't make him sad again.
"I dreamt I was walking in the garden," she said, "down there on the path just below this window. I was alone, and somehow even in my dream I knew there was something the matter. It seemed to be either late in the evening or very early in the morning, I'm not sure which, but it wasn't quite light, and there was a funny, dreamy sort of look in the sky—"
"What colour?" asked Ferdy.
"All shaded," said Chrissie, "something like mother-of-pearl. I've seen it in a picture, but never quite like that in the real sky, though the real sky is so very beautiful."
"That's just because it was a dream," said Ferdy sagely. "You never see things really the same as you do in dreams. That's what makes dreams so nice, I suppose,—nice dreams I mean,—but I've sometimes felt more unhappy in dreams than ever I did awake."